


lay me down

by chase_the_wind



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Grounder Culture, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Trigedasleng, Wanheda Clarke Griffin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2019-08-24 10:11:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 53,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16637966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chase_the_wind/pseuds/chase_the_wind
Summary: Cause they took your loved onesBut returned them in exchange for youBut would you have it any other way?“The mission was to get my people out of the mountain alive.”“…and yourself?”“I was the sacrifice.”(AU where Clarke dies at the Battle of Mount Weather, and everything changes because of it.)ORThe stories and legends of the Wanheda hold more truth to them than anyone ever expected.





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: "What the Water Game Me" by Florence + The Machine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Threat of Rape/Sexual Assault, Gun Violence, Major Character Death

_**Congratulations,** _

_**You have survived the war.** _

_**Now,** _

_**Live with the trauma.** _

_[\- (x)](https://chase-the--wind.tumblr.com/post/181038118800/congratulations-you-have-survived-the-war-now) _

* * * * * * * * * *

The gun is a lead weight in her hands as she aims it at President Wallace. 

His eyes are sad and heavy, but unafraid. They seem almost pitying, because _he knows._ He knows the weight she carries on her shoulders, the weight of caring for her people and trying to get them out alive. 

If they had been on the same side, Wallace thinks he would have chosen her to succeed him over his son.

The ground had taught Clarke how to make the hard decisions; she knew how to push aside her humanity, to push aside her own morals, and make the decision that would save her people. It was not a title she wanted, not a mantle she wished to carry, but it was one that she carried on her shoulders regardless. 

Maybe if she had just reveled in being on the ground like all the other delinquents, if she had not had that bone deep need to _protect,_ she would not be here. Maybe she would be the one being taken care of, being ushered out of the mountain in a protective embrace.

Her mother used to say that there was too much of her father in her. That it was in their nature to protect, to try and take care of others.

Jake Griffin died trying to do so. 

Seemed only fitting that his daughter would die trying to protect and free her own. 

She might struggle, but when it came down to the wire, there was no other option for her. Her people would always come first. Their survival, their lives, would always mean more to her than anything else.

She would sell her soul to keep them safe, _had_ sacrificed all of Ton DC because it meant Bellamy - and by extension, the remaining forty-seven - would not be put into danger in the mountain. 

Clarke tried to calm her panicked breathing even as her mind whirled. Bellamy was standing beside her, Monty is staring on in horror, but her mind keeps coming back to one thing. 

The odds are not in their favor right now. With the loss of Lexa’s forces, they have no leverage. 

There is no back-up, there are no other forces. 

There is no one coming to help them; they are alone.

She knows Bellamy will follow her until the end of the line, knows that Monty will stay if she needs him to, but she will _not_ let them be part of the sacrifice. 

So now it is her and a gun against a _mountain._

There is only one thing left she _knows_ will work. 

Maybe, if they had more time, if she had thought to make a contingency plan for the betrayal, she would have another idea, another recourse, but she _didn’t_ and they are _running out of time -_

She is making her decisions as quickly as she can, weighing the pros and cons and bartering pieces of her soul for the chance to see her people safely out of this mountain.

It won’t be enough. She can’t just barter pieces of her soul this time. 

She has to barter _herself._

Clarke reaches deep within, to the little hidden part of her that she reached for when she mercy-killed Atom after the acid fog, the comforting darkness that she had reached for again and again - torturing Lincoln to save Finn, closing the Dropship doors on Bellamy and Finn, when she held a shard of glass to Maya’s throat, when she had to bury another knife into Finn’s heart to save him a brutal death, having to slam the electrified baton against Lincoln’s chest while Octavia cried, when she walked away from Ton DC knowing the bombs would be dropped - finding the strength in that darkness to do what needs to be done. 

Because there is no other way. 

~~_Her own voice, quiet and determined and emotionless, "It is worth the risk-"_ ~~

“Walk,” she orders Wallace, pointing to the door with her free hand. 

She is going to bring him to his son. 

Clarke grabs the microphone from Bellamy, whispering into the comm link, “I am bringing your father to you. Just you, no guards, and my people will tell me if you try to bring any. He will remain alive so long as you do not touch my people. We will work out a deal from there.”

There is silence, and she sees Cage punch a wall in frustration. 

She knows she is banking on his love of his father, a love that can give out if he decides his ambitions - and his people - mean more to him. She is banking on his pride, on how his ego would not allow a small-slip of a girl to outwit him.

For a moment, she fears she might have miscalculated. 

But that moment of panic is for naught, because he raises the comm link to his mouth and hisses out, “I will not touch your people as long as you do not hurt him. Come on out, Clarke Griffin. We will have that talk you are eager for.” 

Clarke does not shiver from the implied threat.

“Bellamy, stay here with Monty until I tell you otherwise. Monty, keep an eye on everything and let me know what’s happening through the comm link.” 

Bellamy’s eyes are filled with fear and questions, but he makes not a single sound of protest. 

Clarke hesitates slightly, but then decides that if she is going to die today, she is going to die with as little regrets as she can. 

She wraps her hand around Bellamy’s, and quickly pulls him closer to her. 

He comes willingly, taking a half-step into her space without hesitation. His gaze is heavy, loaded, and she tried to sear his look of burning emotion into her memory. 

Clarke goes up on her toes, and pressed her mouth to his.

His lips are chapped, small divots from where he had been chewing on his bottom lip with nerves. His mouth is warm and soft against hers, and she wishes she had longer to catalogue the taste of him.

It is nothing more than a brief touch, not even enough time for him to reciprocate, but when she pulls back, she can see the shock on his face. 

She does not linger. She motions Wallace to the door, feels the weight of Bellamy and Monty’s stares on her back even as she follows the president into the hall. 

“Clarke?” 

Bellamy’s voice sounds so _fragile,_ and it _kills_ her. 

She pastes a fake smile on her face as she turned to look at him. 

For once, lying comes easy. 

“I’m gonna be right behind you Bellamy."

Relief floods his expression, and she has to swallow down the bitter guilt at her lie.

The door shuts behind her and she leads Wallace down the narrow halls.

.

.

.

In the end, it was simple. 

She brought Wallace to his son, and met Cage’s cold eyes. 

“You free my people,” she commanded, “Or I shoot him and you right now.” 

“Even if we free them, we can just take your pathetic camp later,” Cage taunted, “What makes you think that you have any bargaining power here?”

_It’s worth the risk it’s worth the risk it’s worth the risk -_

She makes sure that the walkie-talkie she has is not transmitting back to Bellamy and Monty, steels herself and lifts her chin, stiffening her spine. 

“I’ll stay,” her heart racing as she laid her final ace on the table, even as her voice stays steady, “Take my blood, my bone marrow, do whatever you want to me. I will stay, but you will _let them go_ and _leave them alone.”_

She knows any agreement out of his mouth is a lie; she knows the instant that her life is over, he will immediately threaten her people again. 

But she is banking on the fact that she can get her people out of the mountain _now._

If she dies here now, then that is fine, because her mother and Kane and Bellamy will make sure that they will not be taken again. They will know the threat they are up against, and will know how to fight back or flee. They will be prepared for it. 

She just needs to get them out of the _godforsaken mountain -_

Cage’s eyes are cruel and calculating, and she can see the lies in them even as his mouth twists into a sneer - 

“Deal.” 

.

.

.

She picks up the radio with one free hand, and immediately contact’s Bellamy, her gun still steadily trained on the back of Wallace’s head.

“Bellamy?”

There is only a split second’s pause before his voice echoes over the line, slightly distorted but tense with residual adrenaline. 

_“Clarke?”_

Her voice is steady, even though on the inside she knows she is falling apart, knows that this is going to be the last time she ever talks to him. 

“Get to the others. They are releasing them. Escort them out, make sure they are all safe, get them back to camp. Take care of their wounds, and be on guard,” she commands. 

_“Clarke?”_ He asks again, his voice disbelieving. 

“Go, now,” she commands. 

_“And you?”_

She pauses for a long second, and very clearly crosses her fingers on the hand that is holding the radio.

“I told you Bellamy, I’m right behind you.”

.

.

.

It’s a blur of running out the mountain, the kids almost stampeding over each other as they sprint down the halls. Monty is all but dragging a reluctant Jasper, but he is the only one who hesitates. 

The cold air of the night hits him like a rock, making his lungs spasm a bit in shock, but he can only gasp in relief as his feet touch grass. 

The kids immediately run into the arms of the adults who were waiting outside of the mountain. There is chaos as parents reunite with their children, cries as they relish in their freedom, in narrowly escaping death. 

The sound of the door slamming shut behind them makes many of the gathered Arker’s flinch. 

Bellamy turns, looking to his left and right as he tries to find Octavia, or Clarke, someone - 

Octavia is there, but he cannot see Clarke. 

Panic threatens to choke him, even as his mind tries to reassure him that she is somewhere, looking after the wounds of someone else, or calming down her mother - 

But Abby is looking as panicked as he is, as she calls out frantically as she pushes through the crowds, Kane only a half-step behind her. 

Bellamy can only continue to whirl around in horror as he realizes over and over again that there is no head of blond curls, that even as the adult Arkers are reuniting with their children, Abby is frantically looking around for her daughter. 

“Clarke! _Clarke!"_

Bellamy can feel his knees giving out underneath him, can feel the icy horror building up in his chest when he realizes that when she told him to leave, she _knew_ she wasn’t coming out with them. 

His lips still burn from where she had kissed him, quickly and frantically before she went to bargain with Wallace and Cage. 

Bellamy hadn’t thought about what she might be doing, what she might be offering them. He had been so used to her finding a way out of impossible situations, he had just assumed she would pull off another miracle. 

He hadn’t thought to look back to make sure she was taking up the rear. 

He hadn’t looked back to make sure she was with them. 

Oh, god, he hadn’t looked back. 

Too wrapped up in the pain of being sent into the mountain _(it’s worth the risk)_ to seeing Octavia, knowing from just looking at her that something was wrong and having her snap at him that _your precious princess left me and the rest of Ton DC to die,_ too wrapped up in the pain of that betrayal from his co-leader _(his better half, gods forgive him, he loved her)…_

 _He hadn’t looked back._

_**He hadn’t looked back -**_

.

.

.

Clarke watches from the screens of the security room, gun still in hand, as slowly, the others realize that she is not coming out of the mountain. 

She cannot hear any audio from the footage, but she can see her mother arguing with Kane, can see Octavia trying to push Bellamy back to the forest. 

It takes them longer than she is comfortable with to finally turn and head back to the trees, carrying those that are too weak to walk. 

Once they finally all disappear from view - Bellamy and her mother the last to turn their backs on the mountain and follow their people - Clarke finally unwraps her cramping fingers from around the gun. 

She will never get a chance to tell her mother that she still loves her, even if she can never forgive her for what she did. She will never get a chance to apologize to Octavia, to hug Bellamy, to apologize again to Raven for Finn, will never be able to say goodbye - 

_I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry -_

Slowly, keeping her eyes on the screens the entire time, she lays it on the table beside her, safety on. 

“A deal is a deal,” she utters calmly. 

Hands grab her arms tight enough to bruise, and she barely has time to take a deep breath before someone slams something into the back of her head. 

Everything goes dark before she hits the ground.

.

.

.

“We _cannot_ leave her there!” Bellamy snaps, his hands in tight fists at his side. 

In an ironic twist of fate, it is Bellamy and Abby united together against Kane and Octavia. 

The unlikely allies stare each other down across the path, about an hour’s hike away from the mountain. 

“Bell, whatever Clarke did, it was to buy us time to heal our injured and get the _hell_ away from the mountain,” Octavia snapped, “You know as well as I do and as well as Clarke does that the _minute_ they have the opportunity, they are going to come back for us. We cannot depend on the Clans to protect us, not after Lexa betrayed the alliance. We do not have the forces to muster a counterattack, and they will be waiting-“

“So we just leave her there?” Abby demanded, glaring at Kane, “We leave her at their mercy? Kane, they could be torturing her, they could be killing her-“

Abby’s voice went high-pitched and then cut off near the end of her sentence, her eyes brimming with tears even as her face remained furious.

Kane looks uncomfortable with the entire situation; uncomfortable and unhappy. 

“Abby, we cannot let whatever Clarke did be in vain. We need to get our people away from the mountain, fortify our defenses, and then we will find a way to bring her back.” 

“When!?” Bellamy roared, trying to resist the urge to _punch_ Kane in the nose, “Before or after they drain her of her bone marrow? Before or after they have her for long enough to torture her?”

“We don’t know what she promised them, Bellamy!” Octavia snapped, “She could be fine! She could have bartered anything, her medical knowledge, promise for medical supplies later, anything to gain our people’s freedom!"

But Bellamy _knew_ his sister, could read her expressions like he could read a book. 

Even she didn’t believe the words that were coming out of her mouth. 

“We cannot risk it,” Kane cut off Bellamy’s retort, turning to look helplessly at Abby, “We have to get our people to safety.” 

~~_It’s worth the risk -_ ~~

“And Clarke?” Abby crossed her arms, her jaw set in a stubborn way that was just like her daughter, “I will not leave her in that mountain, Marcus.” 

“I know,” Marcus soothed, “But once out people are back to safety, I will bring her back myself.” 

Bellamy felt his stomach drop. 

Marcus was a politician. He knew how to make promises he could keep.

He did not promise that he could bring Clarke back _alive._

Abby noticed it too, as sharp as she was. 

“You can’t promise me we will bring her back alive,” she whispered, anger and grief making her voice tremble now, “You can’t promise me she will be alright.” 

Marcus sighed, despair in his own voice. 

“I cannot promise _any_ of us will be alright, Abby. All I can do it make sure that whatever Clarke sacrificed, whatever she did to free our people, was not in vain.”

.

.

.

Clarke gritted her teeth, but the screams still slipped past her lips.

The restraints around her wrists bruise her skin, her nails cutting bloody crescents into her palms as she fights against the leather; it does no good. 

The drills dig into her skin, tearing through muscle and bone with ease. 

Clarke curses her own medical knowledge for telling her all the damage that is being inflicted on her body each second. The torn muscles, the loss of blood and bone marrow, the holes in her pelvis and knees - 

The only respite she gets is when she is dragged off of the table and thrown into one of the cages. 

The dirty, cold grates are almost soothing against her overheated face, even as her body shakes with the ravaging fever she contracted, her body fighting the useless fight to heal itself again and again and again - 

She only gets hours in between, precious hours when she tries to hold back the tears and plan through her pain and panic. 

The moment she is dead, they are going to launch missiles at her people. Her people, her kids, they will all be dragged back to the mountain and undergo the same torture she is right now. 

Her mind races even as her body succumbs to exhaustion and her injuries, trying to think of contingency plans. The Arkers need more time, they need time to get away from the Mountain Men’s reach, and she didn’t even know how many days had gone by, doesn’t know how many days she even has left in her - 

In the end, it is the arrogance of Dante Wallace that saves her people.

Well, the arrogance of Dante Wallace...and the determination of Maya Vie.

.

.

.

She had no idea what day it was.

Clarke’s head lolls on her shoulders, even as she wedged herself in the corner of the cage she had been locked in.

She had long-since stopped shivering, but the cold seemed to have become a part of her bones. 

She ignores the bloody, open sores in her skin. 

The sound of the door opening had her flinching; she gritted her teeth, forcing herself to keep an impassive face. 

But instead of a doctor, or Cage with his smug expression to gloat, it was the familiar, pretty face of Maya. 

“Clarke?” 

Maya quickly unlocked the cage and yanked open the door, reaching out to Clarke without hesitation. 

Clarke blinked rapidly, trying to come to terms with what was happening. 

“Maya?” 

“Come on,” Maya ushers the teenager out of the cage, easily throwing the blond’s arm across her shoulders and supporting most of her weight, “We need to get you out of here.” 

“Maya, I can’t -"

“I know,” Maya cuts her off, her voice soothing but determined. 

Instead of heading for the chute where they dumped the bodies, she heads towards the door to the med ward. Just beyond the door, her father is waiting. 

Vincent Vie is a far cry from the man she had met before; where had once been a meek man was now a man with steel in his gaze. 

“Maya?” Clarke questioned again, all the exhaustion in the world not enough to make her question what was going on. 

“The only way this ends is if the Mountain ends,” Maya intoned quietly, without a trace of fear or hesitation, “My mother died believing in the wrongness of what they were doing. And we agree.” 

Clarke swallowed harshly, unable to fathom what Maya was saying. 

“But what about…Maya, there are innocents in this mountain-“ 

Maya’s lip trembled slightly, tears welling in her eyes; Clarke could see the conflict in the girl’s face, knew the conflict was mirrored in her own gaze. 

“None of us are innocent,” Maya whispered. 

.

.

.

The three stumbled throughout the halls, ducking into alcoves and hiding from patrols. 

Apparently, Cage was getting sloppy; he had been strutting around the mountain since she had been imprisoned, as if he had single-handedly orchestrated the downfall of his enemies. 

Somehow - by a miracle - they end up outside the command room without being stopped. 

Vincent has a gun in his hand, safety off and finger resting alongside the trigger.

Clarke can see where his fingers still tremble. 

Gently, she reaches out and takes it from his unresisting fingers. 

Their eyes meet in a intense gaze, and Clarke can see the relief on his face. 

What is more blood on her hands to spare this man peace in his last minutes?

He pushes the door open and pulls Maya out of the way, and Clarke fires off three shots without hesitating. 

The three techs in the control room don’t have time to radio for help, or even to call out before they are all slumped, falling out of their chairs. 

Dead. 

On the screens, she sees the targets locked onto Camp Jaha. Sees the infa-red film of all her people, crowded behind the gates.

She can only imagine that they are trying to fortify it, on guard and terrified about retaliation from the mountain.

Stumbling, limping with pain, she throws herself at the console, tapping at it quickly to bring up the controls for the ventilation fans that Monty had brought up before. She watches as the controls for the fans load, her fingers trembling - 

“Clarke!” 

Maya’s voice is frantic, and Clarke scrambles for the gun even as she turns around - 

Cage is standing there, all but foaming at the mouth with fury. Guards are behind him, and he snarls as he lunges at her, as his guards grab onto Maya and Vincent - 

“You conniving _bitch!”_

Clarke snarls right back, even as she is grabbed away from the console, the gun ripped from her hand - 

Cage viciously gets into her face, spewing threats, ugly words flying like knives. 

He threatens to have her given to the guards, to have them rape her, use her body until it is no longer of any use. He paints in graphic detail of how he will order for her bone marrow to be sucked out until there is nothing left, threatens to send her back to her people in _pieces -_

He gloats as he points to the monitors, tells her that because of her attempts to escape, she is going to witness the end of her people, that they are going to go and capture those who survive, who will be thrown right back into cages and their bone marrow forcibly taken - 

He expects her to break. He expects this to be the last thing she sees before she is killed entirely, expects this to shatter her. 

Dante is not the first person to underestimate her, but he will be the last. 

He underestimated what she was like when her people’s lives weren’t on the line. He underestimated what she would do when she had nothing left to lose. 

More than that, probably his greatest downfall - 

He underestimated Maya Vie.

Maya, who was always just trying to do the right thing. Maya, who had a heart of gold and a spine of steel. Maya, who knew just as well as Clarke that the ground sometimes made killers of them all. Maya, who had broken her out of the cages and dragged her here, knowing full well it meant her own death. 

Maya, who was the bravest person Clarke had ever met.

Maya Vie was not going down without a fight either. 

Their eyes meet, and instead of fear, Maya’s face is set in grim determination. 

With a burst of speed, Maya slams her foot against the instep of the guard who was holding her, shoving away from him even as he yelped in pain. 

The guards in the room move to subdue her.

Her distraction gives Clarke enough time to fight back.

She wrestles herself free of the armed guards with the kind of strength she thought had long been bled out of her body, punches and snarls and scratches like a rabid animal. Cage is yelling, she has only a few seconds - 

There is the sound of a gun going off, of a male grunt of surprise - 

Maya screams for her father - 

Another gunshot cuts Maya’s yell off abruptly - 

Clarke throws herself at the monitor Monty sat at however long ago, so thankful that they did not think to undo what she had done - 

There on the screen is still the command she had pulled up. 

_Reverse Ventilation Fans._

She slams her fingers on the touch screen, and the screen goes red as the commands starts initializing.

Hands close over her shoulder, trying to drag her away, orders and chaos reigning as they try to stop her - 

But she grabs the lever in an iron grip and _yanks it down -_

Deep within the mountain, there is an ominous grinding noise; a rumble like thunder, that rolls through the walls and the floors of the mountain like a great beast. 

Then - 

Silence. 

The hands on her shoulders disappear, and her ears echo with the sound of screams, her nose filling with the scent of burning skin and boiling blood. She turns in time to see Cage - face covered in red, oozing burns, face twisted in pain and _fury_ \- lunge towards her, but he collapses to the ground before he gets within a foot of her. 

Clarke watches in apathetic horror as they burned around her. The monitors on the far side of the room show her the security footage, the tinny audio somehow reaching her over the screams of the guards in the control room with her. 

The screams of the civilians echoed in her ears, the sight of tiny children convulsing on the floor burned into her retinas. 

Clarke collapses, the adrenaline that had sustained her throughout the fight bleeding away, leaving her weak and shaking. 

Vincent lays in a pool of his own blood, a single gunshot wound to his heart. He would have been dead before he even hit the floor. 

Maya is crumpled near him, her hand outstretched, fingers just barely brushing her father’s shoulder. Another gunshot wound is right in the center of her forehead, her eyes wide and glazed in death.

Bile rises in her throat as she see the blisters start to form on the girl’s skin, but Clarke can only be inwardly grateful that Maya’s death was quick - that the slow, turning pain of radiation would not be the last thing she felt.

~~_I’m sorry Maya I’m so sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry you don’t deserve this I am so sorry please forgive me I’m sorry_ ~~

This is the final stain on her soul, but she knows that she won’t have to live long with it. 

She’s dying, she knows she is. She can barely breathe, she can barely _move -_

But she doesn’t need to, not anymore. 

It’s over. 

It was all over. 

.

.

.

.

She is not sure how long she stays there, half-huddled on the concrete floor of the command room, surrounded by bodies. 

But eventually, sight and sound and touch come back to her. She has an inexorable itch under his skin, an urge that forces her unsteadily to her feet. 

Clarke refuses to die in the mountain. She crawls, drags herself, down the concrete halls, the scent of _death_ burning her nose.

She stumbles, oh so slowly, through the levels of the mountain to the doors. 

It takes her almost all of the energy she has left to spin the locks to open the door, but she does it eventually.

She staggers into the sunlight, the scent of the dirt and the air and the sunlight making her want to weep. 

But she has no more tears left to cry. 

Clarke stumbles forward as far as she can, using trees to support her staggering; her weak, broken fingers grasp at the trunks in a vain attempt to stay upright. 

Eventually, the pain becomes too much. 

She collapsed onto a patch of grass, the impact making her already abused lungs spasm in her chest. She knows she is dying, can feel her fingers and toes grow cold, knows her heart is straining in a vain attempt to keep pumping blood - 

But Clarke is _Clarke,_ and she will _fight_ until the goddamn _bitter end -_

She cannot get to her feet, so she crawls. 

She claws her way across the ground, until her nails are torn and broken and ragged, until blood stains her palms and runs down her fingers. She crawls until her knees are raw, and then she continues to crawl.

There is no way she is going to make it back to Camp Jaha, knows that she will never again see her mother or her friends or her people. 

She will never get to see _Bellamy -_

She won’t get to apologize to him, to tell him _it was_ never _worth the risk, I’m sorry, I love you, I’m sorry -_

But oh, she’s in the forrest, and the leaves are green whispers around her, the moist earth is soft as her muscles finally give out, the cool air brushes against her cheeks and cools the feverish infection that is flaming throughout her body. The rays of the dying sun warm her skin, as gentle as a lover. Her bones tremble, brittle and broken. She is even bleeding sluggishly, her body running out of will to endure. 

She’s dying, she knows it...

But she’s free. 

She’s _free -_

.

.

.

The scouts find her body five days after the escape from the mountain.

Kane can only stand over the girl in horror, bile rising in his throat as he looks at her broken form. 

She is laying on her back, dressed in nothing but bloodstained shorts and a bra. There are angry blue and purple marks all across her face, obviously from hands that tried to beat her into submission. Her ankles and wrists are swollen from restraints, and her skin is split in so many places from where those _monsters_ have forcefully stolen her bone marrow.

Her hands are bloody, as are the bottom of her feet; her nails were broken and ripped off, her palms streaked with dirt and embedded with small stones, some of her fingers obviously broken. Once beautiful blond hair is matted with blood, dirt, and sweat. 

She looks peaceful though, her eyes closed and her mouth parted slightly like she was asleep. There was no pain on her face. If it weren’t for her injuries, it would look like she had just fallen asleep. 

Kane tries to take some comfort from that fact.

Clarke had made it two miles away from the mountain. How she did it, Kane will never know. Her feet are torn apart on the bottom, and he wants to scream at the thought of how much agony she must have been in during her final moments. 

He’s so thankful that they got to her in time that there were no animals scavenging at her body. 

Gently, he peals off his jacket, and wraps her up in it. Her bones feel brittle beneath her skin, almost hollow, like bird bones. He half-expects her to crumble from his touch. She is so tiny in that moment - a mere child, only 18 years old - he feels like a father for the first and only time in his life. 

He walks back to Camp Jaha, that limp bundle in his arms, and tries to steal himself. The guards around him are silent, a respectful vigil as they turn home with their lost princess in tow. 

“I’m so sorry, Clarke,” he whispers against the crown of her head, guilt almost choking him, “I’m so sorry. But I’m going to bring you home. I’m going to bring you home. I promised.” 

.

.

.

Octavia knows she will never forget the look on Bellamy’s face when he saw the limp form in Kane’s arms, knows she will never forget what it was like to see a person crumble completely in a single moment. 

The entire camp knows that they will never forget the sound of Abby’s screams when she saw that her only child was dead. 

Abby has to be sedated by a crying Sinclair, her screams echoing with the pain only a mother who has just lost her child can feel. She clutched Clarke’s stiff body to her and rocks back and forth, her trembling fingers combing through her daughter’s matted hair. When she finally surrenders to the drug, Bellamy is there to take Clarke from her. 

Tears cut silent tracks down his cheeks; even though he makes not a single noise, the grief is so palpable people turn away. He holds her close enough to press his forehead against her temple, wincing at how cold her skin feels. 

She was so _light_ in his grip. She had always seemed so much larger than life, so strong and determined, that seeing her like this was horrific. 

_Please, no, come back, princess, wake up, wake up, wakeupwakeupwakeup -_

He carries her back to medical, and tries to pretend she is just sleeping in his arms.

.

.

.

Once Abby had awoken from her sedated sleep, she and Raven had cleaned Clarke up. Raven’s face was stoic even as tears streamed down her face, her jaw clenching so hard that you could almost hear the teeth grinding against each other. 

Abby had cried silently as she gently washed the dirt and blood from her daughter’s skin, putting bandages over the gaping drill wounds even though she obviously would not be bleeding anymore, and there was no need to prevent infections. There was nothing to be done for the cuts and bruises and puncture wounds that were all over her, but Raven helped her wash Clarke’s hair and comb it out until it gleamed. They set her broken bones - her fingers, her ankle, and a gruesome break in her left arm - and tried to ignore the fact they would never heal. 

_All the king's horses and all the king’s men, couldn’t put the Princess back together again -_

.

.

.

Bellamy snuck into medical as soon as he saw that Abby and Raven were gone. 

Clarke was laid out on the bed, so still and cold. Her face was pale as alabaster, a unsettling green-gray tinge to her completion. 

He hesitated for a long moment, before he dragged one of the stools over to sit next to her. 

For a while, he just sat in silence, hunched over next to her, keeping his gaze on her pale forearm. 

When he started talking, his voice was hoarse with the tears he had been fighting back all day. 

“Do you remember the first day we were on Earth, and I was such an asshole to you? You were the only one that kept a clear head, that focused on the long-term. Without you, we never would have made it past the first two weeks.” 

Bellamy gently wrapped her hands up in his, her fingers slightly stiff and yet limp, cold…the skin feeling almost fake, with no give, no warmth, no life. 

Still, he held her tiny hand between both of his, smiling slightly at the difference in skin tone - Clarke used to curse the brightness of the sun and her pale skin, perpetually getting sunburnt the first few days they were on Earth - and cherishing these moments when he would still get to touch her.

“I know you think that I would have let you fall into that pit when we went to rescue Jasper…but I never would have. I think I knew then…I think I knew then that you were going to change my life. There is no way around it, Princess. You were it for me.” 

His face crumpled, and he pressed his lips tight against the back of her hand and whispered harshly, “You are always going to be it for me.”

Once the tears starting falling, they didn’t stop. He could feel himself shaking so hard his vision went blurry, his mind unable to comprehend everything that was happening around him. 

“God, please, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry Clarke, I thought you were right behind me, _I turned away,_ I thought you were out, and then you weren’t and I didn’t fight my way back in, I am so sorry, I left you there with them, _I’m so sorry - “_

And once all the apologies ran out, once he could no longer find it within himself to beg for her to come back, could not bring himself to beg for something he knew he would never, ever get, he just held her hand tighter and whispered like an incantation, like somewhere she would hear him:

“I love you, I love you, I love you, _I love you-"_

.

.

.

A day later, Lexa burst into their Camp, her horse’s hooves pounding the ground like thunder. 

Lexa had made the double deal, had left her lover there to struggle to free her people. Lexa genuinely believed that Clarke would make it. 

Never, in a million years, did she ever think that Clarke would have died in that mountain. 

Bellamy Blake was the first person to see her, and the rage that boiled in his gaze was too much for her. She looked away. 

Right into Abby Griffin’s eyes, as the distraught mother came bursting out of the shell of their former space station. 

Raven was a half step behind Abby, limping slightly even with her brace. 

Lexa slid off her horse, keeping her chin up and her shoulders back - regal, in control, powerful - the facade harder to maintain than she had expected, but she would _not_ look weak. Not in front of her ex-allies, not in front of her guards, not when everything was so tenuous. 

“I have come to see Clarke,” she intoned, not letting an ounce of emotion escape into her voice. 

Raven’s face twisted in grief and in anguish, and she balled up her fist and laughed herself forward in a swift motion, her ponytail whipping behind her. She punch Lexa right in the nose, and the _heda’s_ head snapped back with the force of it. 

Blood gushed from the broken nose, immediately flowing over her mouth and spattering the front of her armor. 

Raven shrieked in fury, hurtling herself forward again to try and land another blow. 

_“How fucking dare you come here!_ How _dare_ you ask to cry over her body when you were the one who all but gave her to the Mountain Men! You turned your back on your allies, you rescinded your word, you coward! _You killed her and Finn you fucking bitch-”_

One of Lexa’s guards lunged forward to restrain Raven, but Lexa lifts a hand and motions him back. Her eyes water - either from the pain of the punch or the pain from Raven’s words - but her voice is steady, if brittle. She speaks as though blood is not dripping down her face, as if her heart is not breaking in her chest. 

Abby reaches forward and grabs Raven’s arm, gently pulling the younger woman back. But from the dark look in her own eyes, Lexa knows that she would let her go and watch as she attacked again without a second’s hesitation. 

“May I see her?” She repeated, trying to make her voice a little softer without revealing how desperate she was to see Clarke.

_“No.”_

The voice is deep, hollow, dangerous. All of them turn to the side and see Bellamy standing there, gun casually slung across his torso, his face blank and eyes hard as stone. 

The fury, the grief that swirls behind his iris’s is deadly; it’s the rage of a broken man, of one who has lost their moral compass and who doesn’t have any outlet. It’s the gaze of a leader struggling under the weight that was once shared, of a man whose heart is lying dead and cold on a medical bed in the fallen spaceship behind them. 

“Get. _Out.”_ Bellamy commanded flatly. 

Lexa draws herself up like a leader, and it _hurts_ because he can see _Clarke_ in the iron of her spine, in the determined set of her mouth, in the irritation that flashes across her face before she can hide it behind an emotionless mask. 

“I wish to see Clarke,” Lexa says again firmly, but Bellamy’s face twisted again into something brutal, and she can see his hand flexing convulsively on the grip of his gun. 

“And I wish she weren’t _dead,_ but that’s not going to happen, is it?” Bellamy snaps, relishing bitterly in the flinch that Lexa shows, and then he snaps again, “You are part of the reason she is dead. You do not get to mourn over her as if you actually cared.” 

Lexa’s gaze is angry, frustrated, pained, and her voice isn’t as strong when she says: “I did what I had to do for my people-“

Bellamy gets into her face, and if Raven didn’t know Bellamy as well, knew that he would never raise his hand to anyone who didn’t deserve it, would be afraid that he would have hit her. 

“I hope that comforts you. You did what you did for your people, but Clarke _died_ for ours _and yours._ You don’t get to take that from her. You don’t get to alleviate your guilt and then live with yourself, because _she won’t be able to live.”_

He leaned dangerously close, so much so that Lexa’s eyes crossed trying to keep him in her view and her guards tensed on the balls of their feet, ready to jump to her aid.

“Now,” he snarled like a wild animal, his teeth grinding harshly against each other, “Get the _fuck_ out.” 

.

.

.

Clarke is buried at sunset. 

Bellamy remembers sitting with her outside the Dropship one day, and how she had quietly sighed and wished she had paints to capture the sunset; they had never seen colors like it in all their time up on the Ark. The artist in her wanted nothing more than to swirl colors together to try and capture the brilliant shades of pink and purple and red and orange. 

The 100 delinquents - those that remained - were the ones to dig the hole on the top of a hill overlooking Camp Jaha. A clear, beautiful space, filled with wildflowers. It would always be bathed with light, whether the sun was rising or setting. It was a beautiful, peaceful area. 

Solemnly, they laid her body - wrapped in a long, white sheet, none of them having the time or the knowledge of how to build a coffin - in the cold ground. Abby knelt next to the hole and carefully spread a blanket over her daughter, her sentimentality coming ahead of her practicality. Yes, they were all desperate for any supplies they had, but she would not bury her only child without something to keep her warm. Clarke always got so cold; she remembered how on the Ark, she and Jake had made sure that she had the thickest blanket they owned, that she would always have at least one thick sweater to keep her from shivering.

They all stood there in silence, before Octavia stepped forward, her hair in tight braids and warpaint still around her eyes. Her jaw was clenched, but there were tears in her eyes. 

She might not have forgiven Clarke for sacrificing her with the rest of Ton DC, but…she had seen the look of devastation in her brother’s eyes when he saw her dead. And she knew that the look was probably in Clarke’s eyes when she realized that Bellamy would be in danger if they stopped the blast. She knew that Clarke cared about them all, did not want innocents to die, but when it came to those important to her - like Bellamy - she would sacrifice others without hesitation. 

And Octavia could not stay angry when she thought about how the blond medic had been ready to kill hundreds for her older brother. 

There was no one else Octavia would have understood it for but Bellamy. 

“I had mixed feelings about Clarke when we first came down to the ground,” she admitted, her voice cracking on the first couple of words before she got more strength and confidence behind her words, “But she proved time and time again that everything she did, was for the good of the group. She wanted us all to be alright. She fought like hell the entire time to make sure we would. She…she saved us all.” 

Octavia reached out for Lincoln’s hand, and he squeezed it tightly; Clarke had saved Lincoln when he was coming out of the haze of Reaper drugs. She had saved Bellamy several times over. Clarke had always done what she did for the well being of the delinquents, and Octavia wished she had been able to tell her that although she didn’t forgive her, she _understood._

Slowly, others stepped forward to say their own words. 

“She could have left me for dead the first day down here when I got the spear to the chest,” Jasper admitted, his eyes rimmed red. 

The scouts had come back and told them of what had happened in the mountain, that all of Mount Weather was dead. Jasper had been grieving the death of Maya over the past few days, and had long since cycled through the anger and blame he held towards Clarke for his girlfriend’s death. 

Clarke knew that the Mountain Men would have killed all of them the minute they had a chance. Jasper knew that Clarke just made another decision - like she had all the other times - and had done the hardest thing to save the most people. 

“But she didn’t…she almost fell into a pit full of spears and almost got mauled by a mutated panther, but she saved me, she didn’t give up on me. I’ll never be able to thank her for that.” 

And on and on it went, the members of the 100 that survived coming forward and talking about how Clarke had saved them or helped them in one way or another. How she had made sure they had blankets and food and water, how she had tried to save as many as she could when the influenza broke through their camp, even when she got sick herself. 

Bellamy stepped forward, and he found he could not say the words that he wanted; he couldn’t bring himself to talk about all that he loved of her, everything that she had meant to him. 

All he could say to her grave as everyone else walked away was the few phrases that he knew in Trigedsleng, the most important ones. 

_“Yu gonplei ste odon. Ai hod yu in. Leidon.”_

_Your fight is over. I love you. Goodbye_

And together, as the sun slowly sank below the horizon, they said goodbye to their leader. 

.

.

.

None of the Arker’s noticed, wrapped up as they were in their grief and anguish, how in the moment before the sun sank below the sky, there was a flash of green light. 

.

.

.

**[miles and miles away] ******

********

********

Blue eyes opened, staring up at the night sky speckled with thousands of bright, shining stars. 

She gasped, lung spasming like they did not know how to work anymore. She panted for breath, but it felt…wrong, strange. Her lungs were inflating and deflating with her breaths, but she…she wasn’t getting air from it. 

Instinctively, she pressed her shaking fingers to her throat, trying to measure her heart rate.

Nothing. 

Panic rising in her veins, she rolled to her side, her legs getting tangled up underneath her. She kneels and the hard ground hurts her knees. She is frantically blinking, trying to see in the dim light. 

On her wrist, in her neck, even a flat palm to the chest - 

No heartbeat. 

She panted, but then she found herself holding her breath for a long moment. 

Two. 

Three. 

Four. 

Five. 

No dizziness, no pain in her lungs, no demands from her body to breathe - 

She didn’t have to breath. There was no relief from it, no demand from her body for oxygen. All that she got when she inhaled was the scents of the world around her, so much more potent than she expected them to be. 

“Ah, good. You are awake.”

She flinched, jerking around to look over her shoulder to where the voice came from. 

A tall, beautiful man steps forward. He is broad, chorded with muscles; he could have been carved out of granite. He is dressed in what looks like pure darkness, his chest bare beneath an open vest, his pants snug against his muscles legs, his feet bare.

Like her, he was not breathing, not even blinking overly much. The stillness was a comfort, despite the strangeness of it.

His skin is the color of warm teak wood, his iris’ and his pupils indistinguishable from each other. His face is chiseled, jaw and cheekbones sharp underneath his skin. Full lips, strong brows, he had aristocratic features that an artist would weep over. His voice rumbled within his chest, deep and powerful. 

“W-what?” She coughs, her tongue feeling like it is too big and clumsy for her own mouth. She is too confused to think of anything else. 

She can’t even remember her own _name._

“Who are you?” She manages, her voice sounding too high-pitched to her own ears.

He smiles gently at her, and crouches in one fluid motion so that they are eye-to-eye. His hand is cool, his skin smooth, as he reaches out to cradle her chin in his large fingers. 

“My name is Thanatos, little one,” he introduced himself, “Welcome, _Wanheda.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone! 
> 
> this story is one that has not left my head for whatever reason, and i was just wondering if there would be any interest in me continuing this. hopefully, you guys can suspend some disbelief if there are any plot holes in this first chapter, just operate under the assumption this is how it goes so the rest of the story can make sense. 
> 
> if you guys read my other work, you will know that my favorite kind of fics to write is very much in the realm of "AUs-and-crossovers-with-intense-detail-and-subplot-and-rewriting-canon." 
> 
> to be honest, i have not watched much of the 100 after season two, so this is going to be an AU from that point on. there might be some elements of the show after, but those are just what i have gathered from reading other fics and from tumblr (speaking of tumblr, feel free to join me on my own [tumblr!](https://chase-the--wind.tumblr.com/)
> 
> let me know if you guys want me to continue this, if it sounds interesting, if it is trash and i should just delete it, lemme know in the comments please!


	2. ii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Face Claim:  
> [THANATOS](https://bit.ly/2DBDau2) \- (Winston Duke)

****

****__

**_You don’t get to die_**  
**_And be reborn the same._**  
**_You come back,_**  
**_But you come back wrong._**  
**_This is the price you pay_**  
**_For resurrection.”_**

_\- Nathaniel Orientalists G.K._

**__**

**__**

* * * * * * * * * * 

****  
  
__  


**__**

Her memory is shot through with so many holes, but she remembers his name like she remembered where to exactly press her fingers in her neck to feel for a pulse. 

_Thanatos, the God of Death._

“Yes, little one,” he verified with a small smile, and she realized that she had said that last thought aloud.

“Where am I? What is my name? Why are you here?”

The questions tumble out of her mouth with no space in between for him to answer. 

“All in due time, little one, I will explain it all in due time. For now, I will call you Wanheda, at least until you decide to claim another name. It is your due title, it can serve as a name until later.” 

She finds herself nodding, and some of her hair falls into her face. She is shocked by the bright gold color of her own hair; for some reason, she was expecting it to be a deeper, darker blond than it was. 

“Come now,” he said, and his hands helped haul her up to her feet, taking her weight with ease as she tried to get her shaky legs underneath her. 

In that moment, she realized she was completely naked. She knew she should probably be embarrassed, but the emotion was…muffled, somewhat. She felt it, but it didn’t move her.

“Here,” he pulled clothing out of midair, the material seeming to gather from the darkness, and handed it to her. 

Tight, stretchy black pants, a long-sleeved black tunic-style shirt, a thick jacket, and undergarments that were perfectly sized. Without thinking overly much about it, she pulled them on with ease born of muscle memory. 

Her skin was unblemished, not a single scar or discoloration to be seen. It is disconcerting, for she knows there should be marks.

Thanatos did not watch her dress. Instead, he turned to look beyond her, his eyes glazing over as if he was focusing something at a distance. 

“Your loved ones grieve you,” Thanatos intoned. 

She cocked her head; she did not remember names. But in that moment, when he said “loved ones,” she got flashes. Nothing more than sense memories - 

_A girl with long dark hair in a ponytail and a limp, another girl with fierce blue eyes surrounded by war paint, the warmth of a maternal hug and hands on her cheeks, and then_ him -

_Thick curly hair, bruised skin and scabbed cuts, hands with long, strong fingers, warm arms wrapped tightly around her -_

She whimpered, the rushing memories sending a sharp pain through her head and a harsh, dull ache in her chest. 

“Do not try to force yourself to remember, Wanheda, all you will do is cause yourself pain,” Thanatos warned, turning back when he heard her stop moving. She was dressed completely now, but she made no other move. She didn’t know what to do now, arms hanging awkwardly by her sides.

“Why…why don’t I remember anything?” 

Her voice sounded strange to her own ears; she didn’t know what she was supposed to sound like but she knew she didn’t sound the same. 

“Because when a _wanheda_ is reborn, they do not remember their earthly memories at first. It makes for a stronger, more stable beginning while you come into your powers.” 

“Powers?” 

Thanatos offered his arm in an old-fashioned gesture, and she took it. He led her across the clearing they were in, until they broke through the tree-line.

They came upon a cliff, and she stared out into the full moon, hanging low and bright in the sky in a sea of stars. Thanatos sat on the edge of the cliff, his leg dangling over the side and another pulled up to his chest in a surprisingly human gesture. 

Wanheda settled next to him, her own legs dangling in the open space. 

There should have been a sense of vertigo, any kind of hesitance about being this high up on a ledge, but there was nothing. 

“A _wanheda_ is a commander of death. The people that live in these forests,” he motioned in front of them to the spread of trees at their feet, “believe that when you kill someone, you absorb their strength, their life-force.” 

“Is that true?” 

“In a sense. See, taking a life here is something that is almost inevitable. This world is harsh. It reminds me of the times when my pantheon’s myths were coming into power.”

Something tickled in the back of her mind. 

“So like…Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades…they are all real?” 

“Legends and myths hold power, little one,” Thanatos evaded the question easily, a flash of grief in the back of his eyes before he continued, “But they are not always as clear cut as they are told." 

He motioned to her, holding out his hand palm-up. Unsure what he was silently asking for, she offered her own hand. 

He took it, flipping her hand so that the back of her hand was cradled in his palm, her palm visible in the moonlight. 

Her skin was pale as alabaster, looking as though she had been drained of all of her blood. She couldn’t even see her veins underneath her skin. 

“The respect these people have for those that must kill is rooted in truth. It is a rare person who kills only when absolutely needed to.” 

_A girl with curly dark hair, a kind smile but weary eyes, a meeting of gazes and an understanding -_

“I don’t…what does it have to to do with me?”

Thanatos’ eyes were kind, and he inclined his head towards her hand. 

“You died, little one, not long ago.” 

It was not the revelation that she expected. Something deep within her knew from the moment she had opened her eyes and realized that breathing was awkward and her heart was not beating in her chest. 

“You took lives. Many lives. But not a single one of them that you took was for personal gain. It was to protect them from a more painful death, or more suffering, or because it was kill or be killed. You took lives because it meant that those you claimed under your protection would be safe.” 

The two of them lapsed into silence again. 

“So then why…why am I here?”

“A _wanheda_ is a Commander of Death. I am the God of Death. You are under my protection, and my direction. I will teach you about your powers, and I will help you when your memories come back. But you were brought back for a reason, for a duty.” 

Duty. 

Always a _duty._

It felt like lead was being poured on her bones; it was a deep ache, it was a weight that she did not want to carry. It was the kind of weight that could crush someone easily, one that ground against bone and muscle until there was nothing left but dust and exhaustion.

But it settled easily, as if there had been something equally as heavy there before.

“I thought that death meant that my fight was over,” she muttered wearily. 

_Ai gonplei ste odon._

“I wish it were that fair, Wanheda,” Thanatos squeezed her hand tightly, before releasing it. 

“I wish that you could just rest now, but you cannot. You do not remember now, but you love your people. You love them enough to murder hundreds. You are a _Wanheda_ now, and they are going to need you to withstand the storm that is coming for them.” 

Something wet was on her face. She touched her cheek, and for some reason, was surprised to find tears on her fingertips. 

She was crying. 

If she were dead, how could she still cry? 

Thanatos reached out to her, enfolding her into a gentle embrace. She went easily, too tired to offer resistance. She laid her head against his shoulder and allowed him to support her weight for a long moment. 

_A tall, blond, broad man hugging her, a hand cradling the back of her head. His sad, loving gaze locked on her even as he was ripped away from her into the dark void of space -_

More tears fell, fast and hot, down her face. 

“It will be alright, little one,” Thanatos soothed, and for a long moment, he was someone else - the blond man who had held her so comfortingly - but that faded away as quickly as it came. 

“Alright,” she found herself saying, her voice warping thickly. She cleared her throat and leaned back out of the circle of his arms, her voice getting a bit stronger as she tried to fortify herself, “I guess it's time for me to train.” 

.

.

.

Her powers were…slippery. 

They didn’t have a set purpose They were intangible, fluid, like water running through her fingers.

“Life and death coexist together in an endless cycle,” Thanatos explained, standing behind her, hands on her shoulders, as he walked her through some training exercises the following morning, “You cannot have one without the other, and they feed into each other continously."

“Since your powers have no single definition, thus, your limits are minimal,” he further elaborated, “Reach out with your mind, with all your senses. Feel the death and life in the air, all around you. Feel how you are connected to it all.” 

And…she did. She could feel the sparks of life in new flowers like warm embers underneath her skin, and the silky smooth touch of death in the roots of an ancient tree. She could feel the coalescing of power in him behind her, even within herself. A touchstone in a sea of sands, a fixed point, of which everything flowed around.

“Reach out, channel it. Tell it to do whatever you want.” 

Her eyebrows pulled together in the middle. 

“Like what?” 

“Anything. But remember, there must always be a balance. You will never get life without death, as you will never get death without there being life.” 

Feeling lost and more than a little frustrated, she closed her eyes and attempted to do what he told her. 

At first, all she could sense was the sun and its warmth on her exposed skin. The wind as it blew through the trees. The faint tickle of her hair as it brushed against her neck and cheeks. 

With nothing else to guide her, she just continued to let it flow through her, feel it throughout every atom of her body - 

Slowly, she felt the connections in the power, could almost taste it on the back of her tongue. 

_Help me,_ she whispered in her mind, but that wasn’t right, and neither was _Obey me_ for there was no enough respect - 

_Change with me -_

She reached out to the flowers in the ground in front of her, and felt the life force of it within her hands. She opened her eyes and watched as the flower bloomed, the flower petals spread wider, but then the edges began to wither. It decayed and then rotted before her, but she felt the speck of life within the remains. The power of the death went back into the flower, and it bloomed again. 

It felt… _right._

“Very good,” Thanatos praised, “Very, _very,_ good.” 

.

.

.

“Look,” Thanatos commanded a few days later as they hiked deeper into the woods around them. 

She turned to see what he was pointing to. 

A mother bear, with thick brown fur - _a grizzly,_ that faint, soft voice in the back of her head provided - was emerging from a cave, scenting the air. 

She knew she should be afraid - just like she knew she should have been embarrassed when she was naked in front of Thanatos when she first awoke - but it was distant, a faint feeling like wind against her skin, brushing lightly against her but not affecting her. 

She could sense the mother bear, her life force thrumming with a soothing blue aura; the small bundle of fur that tumbled out of the cave behind her was a bright, vibrant blue, almost electric. The cub was bouncing on all four feet, an effervescent energy that made her smile. 

Her smile faded as she sensed the second cub. 

Small, thin, fur and skin hanging off of him as if he were nothing more than a skeleton in a too-large coat. Dull eyes, stumbling gait; a sickly gray aura, the cloying feel of _death_ clinging to his body. 

The mother bear gently nosed both of her cubs - to calm the bright one, to comfort the sick - before she lumbered off in a direction, both little ones struggling to keep up with her long strides. 

“This is the way of the world,” Thanatos soothed, his large hand warm and comforting on her shoulder as she watches the sick cub, knowing full-well that he will not make it to the end of the day. His life is fading quickly, and there is nothing to be done for it. 

“There is nothing we can do?” She asked, but she already knew the answer. 

Thanatos smiled sadly at her. 

“No. We keep the balance, as sad and upsetting as it is,” he instructed kindly. 

“How do we know when to step in? If I am changing things, protecting others, isn’t that upsetting the balance?” She asked, her too-bright eyes turning to look up at the god standing beside her. 

“You might not remember it now, might not feel it, but you have a good heart,” Thanatos sighed, “And that is the curse of us immortals, little one. To either feel everything at a distance, touching but not moving us, or to feel so fully, so immensely, that the very world can tremble from the force of it.” 

She nodded, even though it did not answer her question, even though she was still lost. 

Life and Death are a language she is still learning, a dance she is still practicing. 

Maybe one day it will be as easy to her as breathing had once been. 

.

.

.

“Why do I not remember my past life? Why do I not feel emotions like I once did?” 

It is midday, and they are many long-days hikes away from where she had awoken. 

Thanatos is sitting in the middle of a clearing, staring up at the sky that is dotted with only a few fluffy clouds. He makes no outward sign that he has heard her question, so she merely waits until he finally turns his heavy gaze to her. 

“It is because you are no longer human. At least, not fully.” 

She thinks that that knowledge should shock her, should make her upset. 

It doesn’t. 

“Then what am I? And do not just say a _wanheda,_ ” she pierced him with a glare, hands on her hips, “How am I supposed to learn when you will not tell me things in plain words?” 

He chuckles slightly, shaking his head as he cast his gaze back up to the sky for a moment. 

“You are a feisty one,” Thanatos patted the ground next to him, and she gracefully dropped down next to him, never taking her gaze from his face. 

“The myths of the _wanheda_ are rooted in some of the myths that this world used to know of my pantheon,” Thanatos started, his eyes distant as he told the story. 

“There used to be Artemis’ hunters, Hestia’s ‘vestal virgins.’ Apollo’s oracles, Pan’s nymphs. There were followers of ours, something sacred to us. Sometimes, they became something more than just _human_ , in a different way that our demigod children. They became extensions of our powers, of our dominion.” 

Thanatos gently laid his hand on the ground, and out of the soil sprang a beautiful red poppy; he plucked it out of the soil and spun it gently between his fingers by the stem. 

“Gods cannot be killed, not in the way that humans can. But if there is not enough belief, if there is no humanity for us to be tied to, we Fade. Even the Gods are not truly immortal. Ancient beings from some of humanity’s first religions Faded when the tides of humanity started to change. That is just the way of the world.” 

Thanatos let the poppy lay flat in his hands, and with barely a rustle of his powers - she could sense it, like the spark of fire about to ignite tinder - turned the flower into gems. 

“When the bombs fell and life as humanity had known it was wiped from this earth…things changed even more."

His face darkened; she could see the grief and the anger and the despair behind his gaze. 

“We are tied to this earth, our strength tied to the people who know and believe in our myths.” 

His hands deftly took some of the long, tall grass around them, weaving them into a long braid.

"When the bombs fell, and humanity as we knew it was destroyed…my family and friends Faded."

Hesitant, afraid to ask questions because of the anguish on his face, but burning with a need to understand, she hedged, "But...you are still here." 

Thanatos smiled, but it was a bitter smile. His eyes seemed to flash, like an animal's in the dark reflecting light. 

“Yes. You cannot kill Death. When humanity was…when the bombs fell, it was a shock. I almost Faded from the sheer exhaustion, overwhelmed as I was from losing my family and then humanity being decimated, but it was not for long. Like everything, you find a balance. Like Life, I am needed for this planet to sustain in general.”

She hesitated before asking, “So…is it just you or…?”

Thanatos smiled wryly. 

"There are a few of us that Reformed, but only a few that are fully back to power. There is me, as the God of Death. Many attribute Death to Hades, but he is merely the ruler of the Underworld. It has since been barred to me, so other than collecting the Dead and bringing them to the gates, I can do no more. Persephone, his wife, is the Goddess of Spring, and hence, birth and Life. I have not seen her for many decades. She grieves the loss of her mother, and her husband." 

“Anyone else?”

“The only other of my brethren who I know is close to being fully reformed is Ares. There is always war and conflict between the clans, but not to the degree that he would need to come back at full power. And while there are elements of all of my pantheon in this world, it is just not enough. There is not enough belief, enough people, to have them come back at full form.” 

“So you and Persephone are alone.” 

Thanatos half-shrugged. 

“In a way, yes. We miss our family dearly. But it would be a heavy burden to walk this world truly alone. Although Persephone is not here now, she has been. And being the guardians of this world is a heavy burden that is better shared.”

They fell into mutual silence after, each lost in their own thoughts. 

She watched as Thanatos turned the chain of grass into a thin, metal chain. He threaded the chain through the gem-poppy he had made. 

“For you,” he gifted, letting the necklace fall into her hands. 

“For what?” She asked. 

“It is one of my symbols. If you need me, touch it and think of me. I will hear your call.” 

She stared down at the beautiful charm - the rubies glimmered in the low light, the onyx middle almost the same color as his eyes. 

She took it and let it fall around her neck. It settled just below the dip in her clavicle, a cool and steady weight. 

Thanatos watched her movements with a heavy gaze; she could not make out his expression, could not read the emotion there. But when their eyes met, he gave her a small smile. 

“Come, little one. We still have much to do and a distance to go.” 

.

.

.

The days and nights continued like that, blurring into one. 

She remembered parts of being human - sleeping, eating, feeling cold or hot, the weariness of overused muscles - but they were distant, even more so now that she did not feel those sensations. 

She did not need to sleep. She could, if she wanted to, but she did not feel exhaustion. 

Sometimes, when she tried to sleep, she would have dreams. Nightmares, too. More memories of the girl she had been before she had died, or flashes of a life that she had once lived in the stars.

There were some reoccurring faces. But the man with the curly hair and dark, fathomless eyes appeared more often than not. Smiling, frowning, eyes brimmed with tears, and every emotion and expression in-between.

A hand wrapped around hers. A rough, deep voice. Her own, lighter and more emotional, whispering words that tasted like lies: _I am right behind you._ The warm pressure of his chapped lips against hers, a kiss that was a confession and a farewell in one.

One night, she had a nightmare about the man with the curly hair. She knew it was false. Knew from the few memories she got that he had not died with her. 

But, in her nightmare, she saw him dying. He bled out, his life’s blood sticky and crimson against her hands as she screamed at him, begged him to stay. His dark eyes staring blankly, glassy and unfocused, over her shoulder as he gasped, struggling to breathe. The blood that kept coming in waves, soaking her legs and her hands even as she tried frantically to save him. The bone-deep, aching grief and guilt because she knew his death was _her fault_ \- 

She had flailed awake in a panic, thrown even more off-balance from expecting a racing heart that would never again move. Tears welled in her own eyes, but she could not bring herself to cry. 

Already, the feelings were fading with consciousness, and she felt even more sickened with guilt because she knew that she shouldn’t be able to distance herself the way she did - 

She stopped trying to sleep after that.

.

.

.

Thanatos would tell her the stories of the stars. 

They would lay, head to head, feet pointing in opposite directions, staring up at the multitude of stars that burned overhead.

“There are many variations of the myths surrounding Artemis and Orion, some of them not so flattering to him,” Thanatos started one night, pointing up to the constellation that memorialized the renowned hunter. 

“He was a normal man, not a demigod or born of the earth. He was a handsome hunter, born on the island of Chios. He drove the wild beasts from the land with his skill, and fell in love with the princess of Chios. Her father, the King, had Orion blinded. He disproved of Orion and his daughter’s relationship, for Orion was a common hunter. The rising sun is credited for giving him back his sight, but that was Apollo."

“Wasn't Orion in love with Artemis? Or didn’t she kill him for trying to rape her?” She asked, the vague knowledge of some of the Greek myths coming to mind. 

Thanatos chuckled. 

“No, not at all. Apollo and Artemis both loved Orion, but in different ways. It was an ugly, messy triangle. Apollo, who had fallen in love with Orion, Orion who fell in love with Artemis’ way of life, and Artemis who loved Orion deeper than she had ever loved another man, save Apollo. And love led to jealously. Apollo, jealous of Artemis’ affection for Orion and jealous for how Orion loved her, Orion jealous of the freedom the gods had, Artemis jealous of Orion’s humanity.” 

“Why was she jealous of his humanity?” 

It did not make sense to her; what was a god to be jealous of in regards to humans? When they had power, when they had control over their lives and the world in a way that no human ever would?

“Artemis was a virgin huntress by choice, but that doesn’t mean that she never coveted love the way humans love. The way that is all-encompassing, the kind of love that can burn down empires, that even in death can still burn white hot and pure. Gods do not love like that, little one. We love in ways that destroy nothing but those that we love, and we live with the grief and guilt of being their end.”

Thanatos sounded…sad. Achingly sad. 

“Orion was twice damned, for he was loved by two gods. The monsters we attract by virtue of our godhood came for Orion, and he was killed by a monstrous scorpion that he had no hope of ever being able to escape.” 

Thanatos fell silent as he _remembered._

Remembered how Artemis had lamented, cradling the rapidly cooling body of her beloved friend, his blood soaking her front, hands grasping as if she could somehow grab him back, hold him there with her on earth. Remembered how Apollo had trembled with the force of his grief as he soundlessly keened, hunched over his knees and gripping the earth tightly, as if it would keep him from shaking apart.

Remembered how carefully he had cradled that bright, vibrant soul in his hands, and instead of delivering him to the shores of the Underworld, instead freed him amongst the stars, memorializing the man whose only crime had been to love and be loved. 

It would always be humanity’s greatest crime.

“None of these epic tales have happy endings,” she commented, a faint touch of grief to her words. 

It was easy to dismiss the myths and the legends when you thought they were just myths and legends, fiction with maybe a moral for how you should live. 

But now…knowing they were people, that the myths distorted who they really were sometimes…that made it harder. 

“So few tales in reality do,” he countered. 

Thanatos’ gaze caught on another constellation, and despite himself, smiled. 

“I will tell you one day about a princess who did get a happy ending,” he promised her, still gazing at the constellation that memorialized a princess who had loved and been loved by a hero, and never let anything drive them apart. A princess who was remembered as nothing more than a pawn in the larger myth of men, but in life, had been a royal with an iron will and a caring heart. 

Much like the girl who was lying on the forest floor with him as well. 

She gazed up at the sky as well, her eyes catching on the same constellation, a sense memory rising - 

_The man with the curly hair, pointing out the stars, a small smile on his lips, telling her a legend with a happy ending, of a princess and a warrior - Andromeda and Perseus -_

She blinked, forcing the memory back, but unable to stop the bloom of warmth and _longing_ in her chest.

“I would like that,” she whispered back despite herself. 

.

.

.

They continued to walk for days, which turned to weeks. 

She never asked where they were going. 

Still, while she was not surprised when they came to the ocean, it still took her breath away. 

She had never seen something like the sea before. 

The waves pounded rhythmically against the shore, the roar of the moving water vibrating in her chest. She could smell the salt in the air, taste it against her tongue. She could feel the power, the wild freedom of it tickle against the part of her mind that had awoken with her new powers. 

She closed her eyes and let the spray of the water caress her face, the cold of the water juxtaposed with the warmth of the sun. 

Standing there, in front of endless ocean disappearing into the horizon, she felt utterly small. 

It was not a scary feeling. Rather, she was comforted by it. In moments when she felt so off-balance by this new world she had reawakened in, there was something soothing in seeing that there was something larger, much more out of control, than where she was. 

"Has Poseidon reformed?" She found herself asking without thinking. 

Thanatos flinched - barely there, minute, but with the enhanced vision she possessed, she saw it. 

"Poseidon...has always been wild," Thanatos hedged, "He did Fade with the rest of us, and he is not...fully formed. But yes, he is on Earth, in a manner of speaking." 

It was both an answer and not an answer, but she was not going to push anymore. Not when Thanatos could not fully hide the pain her question brought up.

"Why are we here?" She asked instead, deciding not to push for more of an answer, not for that question. 

"Why not?" 

She turned her head slightly to look him full in the face, a single eyebrow raised in an otherwise deadpanned expression.

He smiled a little at her, before he - to her shock - gave her a more detailed answer.

"There are no tribes of people for many days travels here, little one. We are going to train you."

“I thought we have already trained?” 

“You have excelled at controlling your _outside_ powers. Once you learn to sense them, tapping into the rivers of life and death around you is easier.” Thanatos explained, “The harder part is going to teach you the power within you."

His expression was one of sympathy as he apologetically went, "And I think that this is going to be one of the most difficult things you will learn to do."

.

.

.

She had initially thought that Thanatos had been exaggerating about the difficulty it would be to teach her of her own power. 

She quickly found out that he had not, in fact, been exaggerating _at all._

It was not something that was innately there, like the flow of life and death around her. That energy, once she learned to sense it, hummed and danced across her skin like sunshine, a constant presence that would grow in intensity the more attention she would pay to it. 

As she was something more than human - more than a demigod child - she had inherited, or been bestowed with, powers of her own. 

Thanatos would not elaborate to her what they meant, or what she would even be able to do. He just told her to look within. 

It was as frustrating as it was boring. 

For _hours,_ she would sit on the beach, eyes closed, the rhythmic pounding of water hitting sand her only company.

Thanatos would disappear on her during those hours, sometimes even days at a time. 

Maybe, when she had been human, she would have felt lonely. But in those long days, she felt a little relief for the fact that she could be alone with her thoughts. 

She had gone swimming in the ocean occasionally, not sparing much thought to what might inhabit it. She would swim far out - much farther than she imagined a normal person would dare. 

Then again, she didn’t fatigue, nor did she need to breathe, so the risk of drowning was not a concern for her. 

It was peaceful to float on her back in the middle of the waves, gently bobbing beneath the sun. It was the most peaceful she had felt in a long time. 

When she left the water after those moments, she felt more centered - grounded. 

Was that how slept felt for her when she had been alive? 

She hadn’t tried sleeping since that nightmare all those weeks ago. 

Because of the monotony of her days and nights, she did not often get much flashes of the girl she had been before. 

She was both saddened and relieved by that.

Part of her burned with curiosity to know more about who she had been, but instinctively, she recoiled away from trying to sleep, from trying to think too hard on those memories. She knew they would bring pain and longing. 

The girl she had been before had died. 

Maybe it was best for that girl to stay dead.

.

.

.

"Get up." 

She opened her eyes and looked up to Thanatos, who was standing imposingly, arms crossed. 

His voice was hard, almost angry. 

She tried not to show how unnerved that made her. 

She uncrossed her legs and got to her feet, brushing the sand off her pants as she did so. 

"Since you are stagnating in your power training, we will start something else so your days will not be idle." 

There was something in the way he said the first part that made her bristle - a mix of shame and frustration - but she said nothing. 

Thanatos raised his right arm, and out of nothing a sword materialized. 

It was long, about three and a half feet, a palms-width wide. The metal of the blade was a dark black, the kind of black that seemed to absorb all the light around it. The hilt was silver, done in carvings of skeletons.

"This sword is made out of a metal that can only be mined in the Underworld, Stygian iron. It was gifted to me by Hades, back when our pantheon was in power. It is indestructible, and sharper than any other known metal."

"I thought Death was depicted as carrying a scythe," she mused aloud. 

The corners of his mouth twitched, but his face immediately went back to the blank expression he had worn. 

"I am. Once you progress more, I will show you how once you become proficient in a weapon, you can make it become anything you want." 

"I think the only weapons I have experience with are knives and guns," she admitted. 

Thanatos snorted scornfully. 

"Guns. How primitive." 

He held the sword out to his side, palm relaxed and fingers flat. The hilt stayed perfectly balanced. 

"There is not much skill needed to work a gun. Knowledge, yes, and experience, but a gun will fire for one person the same way it will fire for another. Aim and skill with longer distances was once coveted before the bombs fell, but that is no longer the case." 

Faster than she could blink, he had his hand wrapped around the sword and the blade whipping through the air, until it stopped a hairsbreadth away from her throat.

"A sword, or any so called ‘ancient’ weapon, requires training and skill. No one person will have the same style, and to survive a fight takes strength of body and mind." 

Her breath caught in her throat; barely breathing, she kept her gaze on his hand, watching for the barest trace of movement. All he would need to do is exert the smallest amount of pressure - one pound of force is enough to cut human skin, she thought to herself - and he would cut her.

"Do not fear, little one," he relaxed his stance, letting the tip of his sword fall to point to the ground, "There is nothing that can kill what is already dead." 

Quick as a flash, he lunged, cutting through the fabric of her shirt and the skin underneath it. 

She flinched, but there was no pain. 

The gash he cut in her forearm remained open, grotesque against the alabaster of her skin. There was the red of the muscle underneath her pale skin, but no pain. No blood. 

_There is nothing that can kill what is already dead._

Of course. No heartbeat, no bleeding.

“How do I heal if I am not alive?” 

“Like everything else, use your power. This can be your inner power, or Death’s power.” 

She clasped her hand to the wound, pressing the two sides of the wound together. Trying to focus, she pulled the magic from around her, channeling it into her hand with the gentle prod of heal. 

Since she was not living, she could feel the silky-smooth feel of death swirl around her arm, almost curiously. 

Then there was a flash of warmth between her hand and arm, and when she moved her hand, she could see the gash was no longer there. Her skin was as smooth and unblemished as before.

“Will I be able to do that to others?”

“Yes, but only to a certain extent, and only with your inner powers once you come into them. There is always a limitation with mortals, a balance or a price that needs to be paid. Be careful, little one, when trying to heal, for even you cannot heal everything."

.

.

.

Another week. 

Another frustrating seven days of being unable to fully channel the power within her. 

Another seven days of Thanatos’ disappointment on her shoulders. 

Another seven days of long hours, day and night, of weapons training that would have left her bruised if she were able to be wounded. 

Another week where she wondered relentlessly what exactly the point of it all was.

.

.

.

“Stand sideways when you can, it makes you a smaller target.”

“Do not broadcast with your eyes what your next move will be.”

“Faster, lighter on your feet.”

“Again.” 

She lifted the sword that Thanatos had conjured for her - not of Stygian iron, like his own, merely a practice one, albeit with a sharp edge - and swung, going after him the way he had taught her. 

For such a massive man, he was light and quick on his feet, nimble and flexible in a way that bordered on unnatural. 

“Remember, your strength is more than even the strongest human. You do not have the same limitations as them.”

Their blades locked close to the hilt. With a twist of his wrist, Thanatos ripped the sword out of her grasp and had her disarmed. 

“Better. You still need to work on not broadcasting your every thought.” 

He stepped back to let her grab the sword from the ground. 

“Again.” 

.

.

.

And on it went, the two of them dueling for hours. 

Eventually, slowly, the fights got longer, more aggressive. They did not hold back. 

Thanatos stopped calling out commands and instructions, and instead enthused when she almost caught him with a move he had used on her, or a delighted whoop when she evaded his own. 

There was no visible change to her body, no bulking of muscle or aches of overworking, but the memories of the moves were imprinted on her until they became almost instinctual. 

She valued these moments when Thanatos would praise her growing skill, when he would take her practice sword - or daggers, throwing stars, knives, scythe - and turn it into a new weapon for her to learn - a spear, crossbow, bow and arrow, even a battle axe. 

It was the one time that she felt as though she were actually doing well in her training. 

.

.

.

The sense memories started coming back again.

It was small, at first. 

Thanatos would clap her shoulder after they were done training, and she would see _a small, scrawny body with goggles around his neck, cheering exuberantly and clapping her arms -_

She would be starting a fire and then she would remember _a girl with long hair in braids and warpaint, sitting across from her, a smile twisting her face and a sharp joke on her tongue -_

She would be looking at a wound on her body from training and would be reaching out to heal herself and she would see _maternal smiles and soft hands soothing bandages over pale skin -_

She started to wonder why these memories were coming back, and why the girl she was before kept trying so hard to break through - 

.

.

.

Hesitant, she laid down in a small clearing just beyond where the trees met the beach. The small clearing was covered in sand and tall grass, the trees providing enough shade that it was comfortable, but the sun breaking in enough to warm her skin. 

It was as peaceful a location as any, and unlike with swimming, she would not have to worry about drifting too far out to sea. 

She settled down on her back, looking up to the large patches of sky that she could see through the leaves. 

The cries of the gulls in the distance and the waves hitting the shore were her only companions. 

The wind blew across her skin, and the sun caressed her face and bare skin, and she _remembered -_

_Another clearing far away, moss beneath her instead of sand and grass -_

_Everything **hurt** -_

_She was alone, and she **ached.** ___

____

____

She wanted the man with the curly hair. 

~~_(Bellamy. She wanted Bellamy. His name was Bellamy-)_~~

_The wind was cold - but soothing - against her exposed skin. She was nearly naked, her skin pale and molted with bruises, ugly, gaping wounds up and down her legs. Blood dripped sluggishly down her skin, thick and viscous._

_She had stared up at the sky through the patches between the leaves, lung aching and forgetting how to take in air, and knew she was dying._

~~_Alone, so alone -_~~

_Only a little ways away from hell and her final sin, too many miles away from home and those she loved -_

~~_My people, my responsibility -_~~

_And although her eyes burned, she did not cry._

_She had no tears left_

_The black crept up along the edges of her vision, and she did not fight it, let consciousness slip from her fingers in relief -_

_She was so tired of **fighting.**_

_But in these final moments, at least, she is free, she is at **peace.**_

_The black closed in, gentle as a low-tide wave, and she knew no more -_

. 

. 

. 

Back in the clearing by the beach, she jerks upright, hands clutching at the sand and long grass desperately. 

Now, with the familiarity that came with Death, she knew that that girl whose memory that was - _Her memory? Who was she? Was she still that girl?_ \- had died, in a peaceful area but by violent means - 

That girl had been ready to die, had welcomed it as a blessed relief, only to be awoken again as _Wanheda,_ and told to continue to fight - 

The weariness that other girl had felt - the girl she had been before - weighed down on her heavily even now. 

~~_She was so tired of fighting_~~

Which is worse, dying after a life unfulfilled and never getting a second chance, or thinking that you would have relief, that you could rest, only to have that torn from you and told that your respite was not over? 

She wrapped her arms around her legs tightly, trying to think through the chaos the memory stirred up, eyes burning with tears she refused to let fall. 

The girl she had been before had been ready for death, and been ready for it to be the end. Selfishly, maybe, but she had been ready for her fight to be over. 

Thanatos had awoken her for a duty, was training and teaching her, had chosen her as _Wanheda_ because he had seen something in her. She had thought of it as an honor, and he had treated it like one. 

Still, in that moment, all she felt was confusion and _anger_ \- 

And above all, she felt grief for that girl who thought she would be free, and herself, who’s poppy necklace as beginning to feel more and more like a shackle around her throat. 

.

.

.

As the days continued to get hotter, so did Thanatos’ temper. 

Even as she excelled in training with weapons - learning how to be ambidextrous, how to change weapons at will, how to _fight_ \- she continued to fall short with her own powers. 

She could get a grip of the tail end of them - slippery, fighting her grasp like a fish trying to escape back into the water - not able to hold them for more than a few minutes. 

And the more that Thanatos grew frustrated with her, the more her frustration with _everything_ grew - 

.

.

.

It all came to a head after what had been a week-and-a-half of _brutal_ training that lasted day and night, Thanatos pushing her harder and _harder_ \- 

She snarled wordlessly, breaking away from him and storming away, her head pounding with her rage - 

“I cannot _do it_ , I don’t understand! Give me more than just the ‘reach within and _feel’_ crap you have been giving -“ 

Thanatos threw down his sword, roaring back, “I cannot teach you more than that, you are the one that is failing here, _Wanheda!"_

He snarled out her title sarcastically, turning it from an honorific to an insult. 

“I am doing everything you tell me to!” She snapped back, fury making her muscles tremble, the frustration that had been building for _months_ bursting out of her with all the power of the untamed ocean. 

“You are _failing!”_

Thanatos grabbed his sword and stormed closer to her, his eyes starting to flash back and forth from the deep, burnished brown-black to a vibrant, bloody _red -_

She barely had a moment to raise her own practice weapon - a sword again - to block his attack. 

“You are _weak!”_ He roared at her, backing her a step further, “I thought you were worthy of the honor of being _Wanheda,_ but I was mistaking!” 

He lunged at her, using moves and speed that she struggled to keep up with, continuing to push her back towards the ocean, her feet slipping a bit on the moving sand. 

He had never before looked like this; furious, focused, all but vibrating with barely contained strength. 

In that moment, he looked more like a god than he ever did. 

She knew she would fear him, knew that he contained more power and strength than she could fathom, knew that if it came down to a fight, he would annihilate her without breaking a sweat. 

But still, bolstered by her own anger and frustration, pride stinging from the sharpness of his words, she stood tall and glared right at him, continuing to block and evade his attacks, pitting her own against him where she could. 

“You haven’t _trained_ me,” she snapped back, her anger and frustration from weeks of fruitless “power" training clear in every word, “How am I supposed to learn if you do not teach me?” 

Thanatos' face twisted in a condescending sneer. 

“I can only explain it to you, I cannot understand it for you.” 

Fury - cold fury - made her _tremble._

“You have explained _nothing!”_

"I have explained _everything,_ you are the one who is too _weak_ to understand!” 

Their swords jammed together, and not even the twisting move he used against her in the beginning was enough to push her away. 

They stayed there, blades and gazes locked, before he used his superior strength to push her bodily away. 

For a long moment, they stood feet apart, barely breathing, glaring at each other 

Shaking his head slowly side to side, he turned and gazed off to the side, disappointment and disgust all but radiating off him in waves. 

"This has been a waste of time. I should not have brought you back.” 

He half-turned away from her, as if she were merely a bothersome pest he deigned not even worthy of killing. 

And that - 

That was _**it.**_

Something within her snapped. Her vision became tinged with red, and when she growled out her words, her voice sounded deeper, layered, _dangerous -_

“I did not ask to be brought back! I had _died,_ my fight was _over,_ and _you_ were the one who resurrected me! _You_ chose me for this duty for whatever fucking reason, and _you_ are the one who has left me to my own devices with it! Any failure of mine is on _you,_ Thanatos!” 

~~_The man with the curly hair’s gaze on her, angry and cutting, his mouth snarling out “This one’s on you princess!"_~~

Thanatos didn’t even turn to fully face her when he scoffed, “Your people - the people you _died_ for - are going to face a threat bigger than anything they could ever hope to fight on their own. I brought you back, I chose you, because I thought you would be strong enough to protect them. Clearly, I was wrong.” 

Stung, burning with anger, she stalked closer to him, hand clutching her sword so hard her arm was shaking - 

“Where were you then when they were being tortured!? When they were kidnapped and alone and being experimented on?! When they were strapped to tables and having drills slammed into their bones?!” 

He looked at her incredulously, clearly not expecting her to know the memories - 

She didn’t know where they were coming from, how she knew - 

His incredulous expression morphed back into anger. 

“That’s not the question you really want to ask me,” he snarled, “So spit it out, _little one,_ speak the words you have been too _cowardly_ to ask-" 

She raised her sword threateningly, tensed as if to lunge - 

The wind whipped around them, growing in intensity and blowing sand around them, the waves pounding increasing in strength behind her. 

“Where were you when I was dying?!” She screamed, her hair starting to whip around her face with the increasing wind, “If I am supposed to be their savior, if you care so much about us, why didn’t you save me?” 

She brought her sword down, lunging for him, aiming to his neck and his head, _anywhere_ to hurt him - 

Thanatos batted her away with minimal effort, and it made her anger flame ever brighter. 

“That’s still not it,” he taunted her, not making any move to go on the offense, instead just defending himself from her attacks, “Try again, _Wanheda-"_

Something within her seemed to _give_ \- 

A rush of energy, of _strength,_ made her slam her sword against the hilt of his own even harder, trapping their blades together. 

Now only a few feet apart, separated only by their blades, she _screamed -_

“Why did you bring me back? Why didn’t you just let me die? I was ready, I wanted it to be over, I was _done_ with fighting, and you just ripped that _peace_ from me! _Why?! WHY?!”_

There was a roar in her ears, like rushing water - 

No - 

The water was _around_ her - 

She looked to the side incredulously; the waves, the churning ocean, was surrounding her like a giant wall, trembling with barely contained power. She could _feel it,_ could feel her hold on the wall of water that was being manipulated by her own will - 

A gentle hand touched the back of her head. 

“Calm down,” Thanatos soothed, his voice a far cry from the anger and disgust it had contained mere moments ago. 

‘’What? Why-“ 

The ocean continued to swirl around her, poised threateningly around her body. 

“I resurrected you because you are the _only_ one who could have become a _Wanheda._ Because you are the only one who can save them. Because you were, and are, the only one strong enough.” 

Their swords clattered to the sand between them, and Thanatos gently laid both hands on her shoulders, squeezing them comfortingly. 

“And now, you understand your powers." 

.

.

.

“I am sorry, little one,” Thanatos apologized, after she had settled the ocean back in its rightful place. 

They sat across from each other in the same clearing she had remembered her death in. 

“I had to push you, and I regret it, but you needed the push.” 

She nodded absentmindedly, her body still trembling with the newfound realization of sensation just beneath her skin. Just as she had been disoriented when she was first felt the interplay of powers around her, now, having them within her was a whole other kind of distraction. 

“My people…I do not remember them that well,” she admitted, her voice sounding small to her own ears, “I get flashes, memories. I do not even know how I knew that about their treatment or imprisonment,” she continued. 

Thanatos smiled sadly at her. 

“You loved them dearly, Wanheda. I understand if my manipulations made you lose your trust in me, but believe that.” 

And she _did._

She remembered the deep, visceral _love_ that she felt for her people. The bone-deep _need_ to protect them, to shield them. 

She had died for them, willingly, without hesitation. 

“What now?” She asked wearily. 

Thanatos reached out a hand and took hers gently, comfortingly. 

“I know you hate to hear this, but more training. You are so close, little one, you have come so far,” he soothed, “but there is more for you to learn.” 

She sighed, drawing her legs up to her chest and letting her head rest heavily on her knees. 

“I am so tired of fighting,” she admitted softly. 

A large hand gently stroked the back of her head. 

“I truly am sorry, little one,” Thanatos sounded genuinely regretful, “I wish that death had been peace for you." 

A beat of silence passed. 

“I wish that I could have let you keep that peace.” 

.

.

.

The training, unfortunately, continued. 

Now that she had forged a connection - or broken through the wall - with her powers, it was about learning how to incorporate it with her powers. 

Powering her hits with them to be stronger, until she could cut through a full-grown tree with minimal effort with a sword. Projecting shields, lifting objects, manipulating the earth around her. 

Hand-to-hand combat, where she learned to fight away multiple attackers, or those much bigger than her. How to fight off someone when they had weapons and she did not. 

More about her minimal healing abilities - for herself, and others. 

More for other mortals than for her, he taught her how to survive. Set fires in all sorts of environments, set traps, hunting, tracking, everything. Navigating by stars or by landmarks. How to find water, medical herbs. 

And then the biggest surprise he taught her, was how to make herself disappear. 

“The shadows are your friends, little one,” Thanatos taught, before he broke off at a dead sprint to the shadows beneath a tree, disappearing between one breath and the next. 

She watched, awed, as he reappeared from the shadows several trees away, soundlessly. 

“How far can you travel like that?” 

“As far as you can train yourself. Distance becomes harder when you do not know where you are going.” 

“So why the hell did we hike for all those days to get to the shore if you could have just brought us here in a second?” 

Thanatos laughed, a bright, full-bodied laugh that she had not heard in a long while. 

“Because you were not ready for it yet, little one. But now you are. And now, you are almost done with training. You can also cloak yourself in the darkness, and become invisible to the eyes of mortals.” 

And so he taught her how to shrug the darkness on like a cloak, how to wear it and travel through it, the smooth embrace of the shadows as comforting as floating in the ocean had been. 

“My one warning to you, Wanheda,” he intoned when she had gotten the hang of it a few days later, “Is do not tell anyone about these powers of yours, unless you trust them implicitly. This is not the kind of ace that you let just anyone know about.” 

.

.

.

The leaves were changing colors and the air was getting a bite of coolness to it in the early morning and when the sun went down. 

Thanatos slipped out of the shadows to where she was sitting by the small fire she had made on the beach. 

“For you,” he declared, passing something bundled in black cloth to her. 

Bemused, she took the bundle and placed it in her lap, carefully unwrapping it. 

It was two daggers, each about the same length of her thighs. Their matching sheaths were made out of strong leather, engraved with intricate patterns up and down the sides. 

Carefully, she unsheathed the daggers, before she turned to Thanatos in shock. 

He smiled at her, the fire reflecting off of his teeth and eyes, throwing his features in sharp relief. 

The blades were made out of Stygian iron. 

“You are ready, little one,” he praised, “These are your weapons now. You are ready, and now are fully prepared to be a _wanheda.”_

.

.

.

The daggers were strapped to her thighs, a comforting weight. The poppy necklace, which had for so long felt like a shackle, was now a comforting presence at the hollow of her throat. 

Before they headed to the trees to travel through the shadows, Thanatos stopped her. 

“Before you go to your mission, little one, there is something you should know.” 

He brushed some of her hair off of her face in a surprisingly paternal gesture. 

“Your name before your death was Clarke Griffin. She was eighteen, nearly nineteen years old. She was the daughter of Abigail and Jake Griffin. Born in space, sent to earth, and was a leader and protector of her people.” 

The name - _Clarke Griffin_ \- swirled around in her head, lighting up and connecting pieces of her memory that had been loose, swirling in her mind like sand. 

“You have a choice, little one, of which name you wish to use.” 

_Everything_ flashed through her mind. 

The girl she was before - Clarke Griffin - had been ready to die. She had laid down in that clearing and had been ready for Death to take her. 

Maybe she was still that girl - maybe a part of her lived on in that way - but maybe symbolically, she could let who she had been before finally rest. 

“No,” she solemnly declared, “Clarke Griffin is dead. I am Wanheda now.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize that this chapter took me a while to get out! But the response to this little head-canon of mine was phenomenal, and I cannot say enough about how much it means to me and how excited I am to be writing this fic! 
> 
> Also, shoutout if you see the little "Black Panther" nod I put in here!
> 
> I hope that this chapter highlights how different - and yet the same - Clarke and Wanheda are, and the relationship she has with Thanatos. I have definitely taken bits and pieces from "Percy Jackson and the Olympians" for this, and have shamelessly changed portions of Greek Mythology to suit my needs. 
> 
> When picturing her powers, think of it kind of like a Jedi, but more focused on life and death, and also a bit of fighting power and the like you might expect from a demigod/superhero.
> 
> You might see plot holes here and there - I promise, they are foreshadowing! I spent about an hour planning out how I want this story to go, and I am very VERY excited to write it, but there might be things that contradict/seem like plot holes; do not worry, I promise I kinda know what I am doing! However, if you see any grammatical or spelling errors, feel free to point them out. I am my own Beta at this juncture, and I am only human.
> 
> Thank you all so much for your comments, kudos, and subscriptions! I hope this chapter lives up to your hopes!
> 
> Happy Holidays, whatever holiday you celebrate, and I will see you all in 2019!
> 
> (feel free to join me on [tumblr](https://chase-the--wind.tumblr.com/) )


	3. iii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Warnings:** Description of Injuries and Death, Loss of a Child, Implied Alcoholism/Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms

_**All my grief says the same thing:** _  
_**This isn’t how it’s supposed to be,** _  
_**This isn’t how it’s supposed to be -** _

 

 

_**And the world laughs,** _  
_**Holds my hope by the throat** _  
_**Says:** _  
_**But this is how it is** _

_\- Fortesa Latifi_

  

**_I don’t want to know what it’s like_ **

**_To live without you_ **

**_Don’t want to know the other side_ **

**_Of a world without you_ **

_“The Other Side” - Ruelle_

 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

 

The passing months were a blur.   

As much as Bellamy wanted to grieve, to drown in the loss of Clarke, he could not.  

He had a responsibility.  

He's  _always_ had a responsibility.  

At this point, he was not sure he would be able to function without one.

As a child, it had been to take care of Octavia.  Hide her, play with her, teach her, _protect_ her - 

It was a weight that should have never been placed on his small shoulders, he realized looking back, but it was a weight that he had carried willingly, devotedly, for the next sixteen years.   

Then, it was the weight of the 100 delinquents.  He was the oldest, the most charismatic, the protector; they instinctively turned to him, made him their authority, and he had shoulder the mantle willingly.  

The weight of that responsibility - a hundred young, frightened, sometimes stupid teenagers - nearly crippled him, but it had been a weight that had been shared with Clarke.  

Then they lost more than half of the hundred - now they were just a mere forty - but he also lost Clarke. 

 And now, he was forced to push on - and carry that weight - alone.  

.

.

.

The remaining leaders of the Arkers - Marcus, Abby, David Miller and Hannah Green - stepped up to help in the aftermath of the mountain.  

 Out of everyone that would be best to run this camp, Bellamy knew it would be them, and he thanked his lucky stars - quietly, choking a bit on guilt - that Jaha had never made it down to the ground, and that Diana Sidney and her followers had perished because of their own hubris.

Still, even though Abby and Marcus did try their best to be kind in their help, there was still a feeling of them trying to swoop in and handle _everything_.  

Unsurprisingly, there was a backlash to that.

The remaining delinquents would never forgive the Arkers for sacrificing them, and they would never forget that they had once been deemed expendable.   

There was such a small population of them on the ground - the delinquents, and then maybe 600 combined survivors of the Ark - but they were strong.  They were more united than anyone would have ever imagined, considering the social stratification on the Ark.  

Slowly, they all got their feet beneath them.  

The delinquents calmed down when it became clear that Bellamy was not going to be edged out of the leadership.  

Abby may had clenched her jaw, but she did not say a word against it.  

It also did help that the rest of the Twelve Clans saw Bellamy as the main representative authority for their people.  

He was sure that had he not been deemed _Heda_  of the Skaikru, he would have long ago been relegated to a menial job.  

Instead, he was the main representative.  

And they still had people to take care of.  

In the beginning, it had only been healing.  Patching up those that had been wounded in the mountain, fortifying their defenses, waiting for an attack, trying to plan for a retaliation or an exodus - 

And then the scouts had found Clarke’s body, they realized the mountain had fallen, the threat was gone, and now...

All they had left was to build their lives on the ground.  

.

.

. 

“Hey princess.”  

The grass was a little damp with the morning dew, but by the time the sun fully rose, it would all be burned off, he was sure.  The sun was just starting to rise, bathing the entire camp in pale golden light.

_Just like her hair._

Bellamy let his gun rest to his left as he sat next to Clarke’s grave. 

They did not know how to make headstones - nor did they have the tools to do so.  But he had refused to let her grave be unmarked.  

The wooden cross - not that any of them were particularly religious - that was now at the head of her grave was one that he had carved himself.

“Lincoln came back yesterday with Octavia.  It’s taken a few weeks for him to fully recover and detox from the Reaper drugs, but he has been pardoned for being a  _splita_ , and was actually appointed the Trikru representative to Skaikru.”  

He would never admit aloud to anyone else just how thankful he was for Lincoln.  Mostly because he would never hear the end of it from Octavia, and if there was one thing his sister would never stop doing, was gloating when someone said she was right.   

“He brought good news though,” Bellamy cast a small smile to the cross to his right.  “While the land we are on is technically Trikru’s, they never occupied it because it was too close to the mountain for them.   With our…” his voice trailed off a bit, his throat hurting, “Well, with  _your_ conquest of the mountain, the land and the mountain became a spoil of war.”

And that meant that it was their land.  There would be no more bloodshed over it.  They would be able to stay and build their own lives there.  

“Even now, you are still taking care of all of us,” he muttered wryly.  

Bellamy had laughed until he cried when Lincoln told them the news.  Laughed from the joy of knowing that they have a safe place to be, and cried because Clarke would never be able to see it.

“We are going to become the Thirteenth Clan, much to your mother’s anger.  Mine too, in all honesty.  Seeing Raven break Lexa’s nose is probably the best memory I have from this year.”  

Abby was _not_  happy at the idea of become the Thirteenth Clan underneath Lexa’s command, but with Kane, Lincoln, and Octavia all telling her that there was really no other choice - not if they wanted peace - she had acquiesced.  

A formal ceremony would wait until the reconvening of the clans the following Spring, but they would not have to worry about defending their land from other Grounders.

It did not sit well with him either.  He _raged_  at the idea that they would have to bend to Lexa’s will, but he knew they really had no other choice.  

And it was not as though Lexa was getting off scot-free.  

Lincoln had told him and Octavia - in private - that Lexa was dealing with a _lot_  of backlash following her betrayal of the Skaikru.  The other Clans were not happy with her betrayal, and she was struggling to hold onto power and respect.   

Bellamy felt no sympathy for her whatsoever.  

Lincoln had warned them that there might be a time of more unrest, but he did not seem overly concerned that there would be any harm brought to any of them.  If anything, the betrayal they had at the hands of Lexa brought them a huge amount of goodwill from the other clans.

They recognized and respected strength, and after being betrayed by allies and still taking down the mountain, they were seen as one of the strongest.

“We are doing a lot of building now.  Lincoln had been bringing people to teach us how to do things the ‘Grounder’ way.  Nyko is having the time of his life learning from your mother.”  

_That_  was a friendship that had been surprising - but welcome.  

“We are…trying, princess,” Bellamy cast a look over to the sun that was now fully risen over the horizon.  

He had to get back down to the center of Arkadia.  He was due to be on his own guard rotation in less than ten minutes.  

Bellamy got to his feet, slinging the gun over his shoulder again comfortably.  

“We’re trying,” he admitted again, turning back to look down at Clarke’s grave one more time, “But…we really miss you."

.

.

.

While they had gotten the good news that their land was now officially their land…

Now, the true work began in full.  

They had toyed with the idea of moving into the Mountain, as was their right - a right told to them by a grim-faced Lincoln - but none of them relished the idea of being encased, after the Mountain and the Ark in space.  The mental health of the delinquents weighed heavily, and the threat of being seen as just another monster to the other clans lead them to going into the mountain and entombing the dead in the tombs deep beneath, where it appeared that the Mountain Men had been burying their people for decades.  And then they took what they needed from the mountain, and then destroyed the rest - especially the acid fog - and then sealed the mountain, forever a silent tomb.  

Lincoln - and a variety of other Traikru members who had the expertise and experience - had taught them how to build simple log cabins.  Felling the trees was brutal, backbreaking, sometimes dangerous work, but with practice, they got better and safer.  Soon, there were small cabins spreading out in orderly patterns from the fallen Ark.   

Most important wards - like the med ward - stayed within the Ark, as did the main kitchen and food storage for the time being.  But they were slowly making their own city, and learning.  

Monty and Jasper worked with Hannah Green in the fields, testing soil and trying to plan the best Harvest.  Lincoln promised them that on his next run to the Woodland village, he would ask some of their expert planters to accompany him back.  

Bellamy…did well with the work.  

He threw himself into the construction of the cabins when he was not doing guard shifts.  Bellamy was the first one to volunteer to fell trees, or the first one to help drag them into place.  It was backbreaking work, and he ended up in medbay more often than he wanted to in order to patch up his wounds, but it gave him what he craved.  

Exhaustion. 

The only way that he was able to get to sleep at night was if he was exhausted.  So long as his body was weary, he would be able to sleep.  

Any other time - 

He was just inviting in the nightmares.  

.

. 

.

_They were running through the mountain._

_He could see the mass of his people, bursting from the concrete hall into the fresh air outside._

_Clarke’s hand was firmly clasped in his hand, fingers entwined._

_Just as he passed the threshold to the outside, she was_ ripped _from his grip._

_He whirled around, panic pounding in his ears, to see Clarke being_ dragged _, kicking and screaming back into the mountain by the white-suited figures.  Wherever they touched her, he could see her skin bruise and bleed._

_He ran to try and grab her, but it was like running through water.  No matter how hard he tried to move faster, he could not.  And every time he reached out to her, they seemed to be further and further away._

_And as the doors slammed shut between them, all he could see was her blue eyes,_ begging _him to save her._

_“CLARKE!”_

.

.

.

He awoke washed in a cold sweat, tears making his face sticky and tight.  His heart was racing as if he had just run miles without stopping.  

Bellamy forced himself to breathe through the sobs that wanted to burst out of his chest.  

The grief felt like a living thing, a dragon taking up residence in his chest, curled tightly around his heart.  During the light of the day, when he had tasks to complete and people to see to, it was as if the dragon slept.  

But once he tried to sleep, it would rear its head with a vengeance.  

The nightmares were always of _Clarke_ , of _losing_ _her_.   

He would see her being dragged back into the mountain, ripped from his arms, him constantly helpless to save her.  Or he would be a silent spectator, a ghost in the room unable to do anything or touch anyone as his mind would make up all the horrific ways she had sustained her injuries.  

Or, he would be running through the woods, and he would see her figure - exhausted, pale, bloodied - stumbling through the trees before she collapsed.  He would call out to her until his voice became hoarse, but by the time that he got to her side, she was _dead_ , cold to the touch.  

Or, he would be in the mountain with her, fighting to keep them together.  He would be holding onto her tightly, but she would still be yanked from his grasp and dragged away and he would be able to do _nothing_  to save her. 

He would get out of bed and do compulsive rounds, checking the security of Arkadia and making sure everyone was safe.  He would not be able to rest again, to jittery from adrenaline and guilt, until his body would give out from exhaustion.  

But as bad as the nightmares were...

There were dreams that were worse.

.

.

.

_“Wake up, sleepyhead!”_

_A pillow hits him on the head gently, and he jerks out of what had been a pretty contented sleep._    

_She’s standing at the foot of his bed, hands on her hips and a bright beam on her face.  Wearing a sweater of his that hung on her small frame and just a pair of black underwear, her hair loose and messy around her shoulders, she was a vision with the light coming into their small cabin._

_“Princess,_ why _?”  He complained, voice rough with sleep._

_Clarke had her hands on her hips and a bright smile on her face even as he mock-glared at her._

_“The Trikru delegation is due to arrive here before lunch, and we still have a ton of work that needs to be done.  Come on, up!”_

_Bellamy groaned loudly and threw an arm over his face to block her from sight.  He didn’t have to be looking at her to know that she was almost huffing with impatience._

_His arm blocked her from seeing his involuntary smile._

_Her feet were light on the floorboards, but he could hear her cross the room quickly.  He knew her so well - he knew she was coming closer to the bed to pull the blankets off of him._

_When he felt Clarke’s small hands against the covers, he attacked._

_She shrieked - laughing loudly - as he got one arm around her waist and leveraged her small form into the bed over him, tickling her sides as he attacked._

_“Uncle, uncle!”  She cried out, her voice breathless as she laid limply in his arms._

_“Got you, princess,” he bragged._

_She looked up at him, her eyes bright and happy as she reached a hand up to slide through his hair._

_“You’ve always got me,” she whispered, sentimentality getting the best of her even though she knew they didn’t have enough time for it this morning._

_He could feel his own expression softening as he entwined his left hand with hers._

_Bellamy felt the clink of metal, and when he cast his gaze down to their hands, his heart damn near swelled to the point of bursting when he saw their matching rings on the fourth finger._

_Wedding rings._

_He was drawn out of his thoughts when he heard the pitter-patter of small, bare feet.  The door to their bedroom creaked open, and when he turned to look over his shoulder, he beamed._

_“Daddy, Momma, Auntie O is here!”_

_“Okay Thea,” Clarke called, pushing Bellamy slightly off of her and crossing the room to scoop up the giggling toddler.  She rained kisses down on the little girl’s chubby cheeks, to Thea’s delight._

_Seeing them together - it was clear that Thea was her mother’s daughter._

_While he was there in the color and curls of her hair, her eyes were a bright blue, just like her mother.  Her smile was exactly like Clarke’s, and she even had a small mole just above her lip like Clarke did.  The bright, beaming grin - the kind of grin that could light up a room - was also Clarke’s._

_“Come on, monkey,” Clarke cajoled, placing Thea on the bed, “Get Daddy up out of bed while Momma gets dressed.  Maybe Auntie O will take you riding today!”_

_Thea bounced on the bed, landing next to Bellamy with the kind of trust that showed she had done this a bunch of times before.  He wrapped an arm around her and pressed a kiss to her forehead._

_Over their daughter’s head - her babbling about her excitement that her aunt was here, about maybe being able to ride a horse - Clarke and Bellamy met gazes.  And with he ease of reading each other that had been born from being co-leaders and then being in love, they shared the same thought._

_They were so lucky._

.

.

.

“Hey princess.”

Bellamy collapses on the ground next to Clarke, scrubbing a shaking hand over his face.  

The good dreams - the dreams of the kind of life they could have had together - haunted him more than the nightmares.  The phantom feeling of her in his arms, of the warmth of their cabin…it lingered, a cold reminder that they would never have any of it.  

The good dreams were the worst, because when he woke up, it was like losing her all over again.  

It was having everything that he wanted dangled before him, only to yank it away. It was bringing a starving man to a feast, only to burn all the food to ash before his eyes. 

The sky was dark still, the stars in bright relief. It was the middle of the night, dawn hours away. 

His eyes caught on a constellation, one of the stars within it burning brighter than the others. 

Vega, within Lyra. 

“Do you know the story of Orpheus, princess?”

He settled down until he was lying on the grass, the cold ground against his back making him shiver slightly. But he let his arm fall to the side, hand open and waiting for a hand that would never again hold his. 

“The lyre was made by Hermes and given to Apollo, and Orpheus’s music was said to be so great, so beautiful, that even the earth itself - rocks and trees and rivers - could be charmed.  He quelled the voices of the Sirens when he was sailing with Jason and the Argonauts.”  

It’s funny, the more he thought about it, how powerful art could so easily be tied to powerful people.  For all that Orpheus had probably been a warrior in his own rights, he was known for his music.  That kind of heart, of talent, was a power in its own right.  

He had only seen a handful of sketches that Clarke had done in the very few spare moments they had, but she had a way of capturing the soul of whatever she was drawing.  For all that she had been a fierce leader, he still remembered more how she could give life to a mere drawing.  

“He fell in love with and married Eurydice, who in some myths was just a mortal woman or in others, was a nymph.  One day, she had been fleeing from another minor god, Aristaeus.  She stepped on a viper.  The bite from the snake killed her.”  

He could imagine how Orpheus had felt, stumbling upon the body of the woman he loved.  The guilt, the despair, the world-shattering grief. 

Had Eurydice been afraid?  She had been fleeing from Aristaeus, already in fear.  When she had collapsed to the ground and the poison had taken over her bloodstream, was she terrified?  Did she call out for her husband in her last moments?  Did she blame him for not being there to save her?  Did she hate him for not being there when she needed him the most?  

Clearing his throat, trying to swallow the lump that was building just below his ribs, he continued the story.

“Orpheus grieved her, played music so sad in her memory that the very earth around him grieved along with him.  He loved her, loved his wife so much that he went into the Underworld to bargain with Hades himself to bring her back to life.”  

Bellamy wished he had that opportunity.  

“Orpheus played his lyre for the King and Queen of the Underworld.  Persephone, so moved by the depths of his love and his talent, convinced her husband to allow Orpheus a chance.  So Hades told Orpheus that he could have Eurydice back, if and only if he didn’t look back at her as he lead her soul out of the Underworld until they were at the surface.”

This is where Bellamy had always silently judged Orpheus. He had spent his childhood thinking that all he had to do was just keep looking forward, keep Eurydice talking behind him to be sure she was there. 

“Of course, Orpheus lead her soul out of the Underworld. Some myths say that she begged him to look at him, and unable to resist her pleading, he did and she was dragged back to the Underworld. Others say that he had gotten to the surface, and she was just about to cross the threshold when he turned. She was still dragged to the Underworld, for she was not yet in the land of the living. Either way, Orpheus failed to bring her back.”

He wished in the deepest parts of his heart that there was some truth to the myths.  That there was something after death, that there was a place he would would see all those he lost again. 

He would hug his mother tightly, apologize to all of the kids he lost on the ground.  

He would kiss Clarke. Kiss her the way he wish their first and last kiss had gone, more than just a mere press of the lips. 

He liked to think that if he had the same chance that Orpheus had, he would succeed no matter what. 

He would walk with earplugs so he couldn’t hear her begging him to turn around, or he would constantly talk to her to make sure she was still there. Or he would not turn around until they were at least half a mile from whatever threshold, just to be sure. 

But when he really thought about it, he knew he would probably do the same exact mistake Orpheus had.  

Because if Bellamy had walked out of the Mountain - his personal hell - with Clarke merely trailing behind him, there would be nothing to keep him from checking that she was still there. 

She had lied to him when she said she was right behind him on the way out.  

Bellamy didn’t think he would ever be able to walk anywhere unless she was in front of him where he could see her, where he would protect her back and make sure she was safe, where he would be the one following her. 

Not that it mattered. 

She had gone where he could not follow, and he _wished_ he could yell at her for it. 

. 

.

.

The first time they lose someone after the fall of the mountain nearly rips him apart.

It is Milo, a young delinquent, one of the original 100 - _only fifteen-years-old_ \- who had been locked up for stabbing his stepfather to death at only thirteen.  

Only a handful - Bellamy and Clarke included - knew that Milo had only done so after years of his stepfather beating him and his mother nearly to death.

Milo had been so _eager_  to help when he could, had been so thankful for the ground for being his freedom.  Not even the horrors of the mountain had made him lose his smile, or turn him into something harder than the goofy kid he was.  

God, he was just a _kid_ - 

They had been training those strong enough how to hunt, and Lincoln had helped them build a safe smokehouse to start preparing for the winter.  

Milo has been a good hunter.  He had always beamed at Bellamy when he came back with his rotation with a kill of some sort in hand, and Bellamy had made sure to praise him for his aim and increasing skill.  

That day, the group had gone out, expecting to collect squirrels and rabbits, maybe a deer. 

Instead, the group had found a boar.  

Bellamy had been on his guard shift when the hunting party had radioed back to camp, screaming for help.  

Abby and Sinclair had run for the gates.  

The hunting party had stumbled through the entrance, some of them limping and some of them fine but holding up the limp forms of others that had been wounded.  

Milo had been carried between two men, his head lolling on his shoulders.  

Abby had blanched when she had seen Milo, and that was how Bellamy knew that Milo was beyond saving.  

The tusks of the boar had all but ripped off his right leg; the gash was all the way down to the bone, cutting his muscles as if they were nothing more than wet paper.  

The others had tried their best to save him; someone had wrapped a belt around his upper thigh as a tourniquet, but it had only slowed the inevitable.  

Even if Abby - or Clarke - had been there when the boar had attacked, there would have been no saving him. 

Milo’s eyes had been open, but he was so gone from blood loss and pain that he was barely conscious, barely coherent. 

Bellamy has gently taken Milo’s weight, cradled the young kid in his arms right there just outside of the gates of Arkadia.  Slowly, he sunk to his knees, trying to keep it together.

“Bellamy?”  

Milo’s voice was nothing more than a faint whisper, his eyes rolling in his head trying in vain to focus. 

“Hey, Milo,” Bellamy tried to keep his voice light even as tears pressed insistently against the backs of his eyes. 

Milo’s curly head rested against his shoulder, the rest of his lanky body draped over his legs and lap.  

The rest of the hunting party and Abby stood in a silent vigil around them. Sinclair had long since gone back to the infirmary with the other injured, but their wounds were nowhere near as serious as Milo’s. 

“He...he jumped in front of me,” a pale-faced kid said, his hands trembling and bloodied. 

Bellamy recognized him - a survivor of Mecha station, only a year younger than Milo. 

“My gun jammed, and the boar was coming at me full speed, and Milo just...jumped in front of me with his spear, and stabbed the boar but it got his leg-“

The boy trailed off, his pale face green and damp from tears and blood. 

Bellamy merely nodded to the boy before turning back to Milo, who was now starting to shake as if he were freezing. 

“Bellamy, I’m...cold,” Milo’s faint voice was confused, but his hands grasped at Bellamy’s sleeves in a tight grip.  

Abby met his eyes again; her face was grim, but he could see the compassion in her eyes.  

For one breathtaking second, she looked like Clarke.  

He was transported back to that afternoon in the clearing after the acid rain their first few days on the ground.  Instead of Milo in his arms, it was Atom dying in front of them.  He had been paralyzed, bile rising in his throat. He hasn’t been able to think, hadn’t been able to do anything. 

Clarke had known.  Clarke had calmly soothed Atom, as calm and collected as she had been when treating Jasper.  She had hummed, soothing Atom and had clutched that knife as she gently but firmly cut his jugular, ending his suffering.  

No hesitation. No panic. 

Just persevering, doing the hard things to spare others the suffering. 

Abby makes a motion to untie the tourniquet around Milo’s leg, but Bellamy quickly moves to intercept her. He grabs her wrist and gently moves it away. 

She looks as though she is going to protest, but he ignored her.

He reached down and untied it himself.  

_His people, his responsibility._

Blood immediately starts to pool around them, hot and tacky as it soaks through his pant leg.  

Milo shifts and whimpers at the movement, but Bellamy carefully adjusts his arms so Milo is comfortable.  

“My leg,” he whimpers, trying to move his head to look down at his wound.  

Bellamy pressed a bloodied hand against Milo’s chin, ignoring how he lives sticky blood marks on the younger boy's rapidly paling skin.  

“No, don’t look,” he cajoles, using the calming, soothing voice he had used when Octavia was little and afraid of her nightmares.  

Milo looks so _young_  and so _afraid_ , and it nearly tears him in two, the thought that he can’t do _anything_  for him - 

Milo’s hand flaps around uselessly for a long moment, before Bellamy grabs it, entwining their fingers tightly, giving Milo something to hold onto as tight as he can.  

“I got you, I got you,” he soothes as much as he could, “You’re not alone, I got you.”  

He doesn’t hum like Clarke did for Atom, but he does hold Milo until the very end, ignoring the blood soaking into his pant leg or the way that Milo's muscles jerk and spasm in death, the air rattling in his lungs.  

And when Milo is gone, it is Bellamy who - through thick tears - reaches up to close his eyes.

.

.

.

_When Milo opens his eyes, he is lying on his back in the middle of a field._

_His hands fly down to his leg, but there is no wound.  His skin is unblemished, his body is whole.  There is no pain.  Still, his muscles feel weak, and he is not sure he would be able to stand if he tried._

_A tall man - dark as the wood on the trees, and who seems as tall as them too - is standing over him, dressed in clothes that seemed to be made out of the darkness._

_“Do not fear, Milo D'Angelo.”_

_“How do you know my name?”_

_The man crossed the few feet between them silently, crouching down with the kind of grace that seemed just a bit inhuman._

_“You were one of Clarke’s, were you not?”_

_Milo felt his throat tighten._

_Clarke - for all that she was only a handful of years above him - was more of a mother to him than his own.  Whereas his mother had let his step-father hurt him, Clarke had been the one to step between all of them and the threats of the world.  She had protected them all.  She had risked her life multiple times to keep them safe, and not just safe, but happy and whole.  She had made the ultimate sacrifice for them._  

_He had cried many nights after she had died._

_The man smiled at him sadly._

_“I know Clarke.  I carried her soul myself.”_

_“I am dead, aren’t I?”  Milo did not sound surprised, but rather…resigned.  But not fearful._

_“Yes, you are.  I am sorry.”_

_“You didn’t kill me.  There is nothing to be sorry for.”_

_The man merely reached out an arm, standing up tall from the crouch he had taken to talk to him._

_“Come…I shall carry your soul to safety as I carried Clarke’s.  I promise.”_

_Comforted by the knowledge that Clarke knew this man - and if this was a hallucination, that at least it was a good hallucination - he let the man lift him off the ground and carry him into the trees._

_He closed his eyes and relished in the soft breeze against his face, and the safety of being protected._

.

.

.

“Hey princess,” he slurs.  

The half-full thermos of moonshine makes a dull thunk as he drops it in front of the headstone, and he collapses next to her in a crumpled heap.  

He resolutely does not look to his left, where further down the hill the start of another grave is being dug.  

“We lost one of the hundred today,” he admits, “Milo.  God, he was a good kid.  He didn’t deserve to be down here.  He was so like Charlotte.  How else would you expect a kid to react to what had happened to them?  The adults should have protected him.  And instead, he was locked up and sentenced to death down here all because he was a victim himself.”  

It was a dull, aching, hollow rage he felt now.  He had spent long enough wailing at the injustice of it in his own head, and now the words spoken aloud were just a tired echo.   

Abby had let Bellamy bring Milo back into the medbay, where a stone-faced Harper helped him clean up the young delinquent.  

None of the others in the hunting party had been badly injured - just a few sprained ankles, and some moderates wounds that would heal within the month.  

When Marcus had come to the medbay to talk to Abby, Bellamy had petitioned the co-chancellor to have Milo buried at the Dropship. 

Calmly, clearly realizing that Bellamy was grasping at straws, off-balance and grieving, Marcus had sat him down and gently reminded him that there would be no way to get Milo out to the Dropship and bury him in a timely manner.  

Bellamy had been too exhausted, too drawn-out and emotional to really fight the issue, although it grated at him.

It had been Octavia - in her usually blunt fashion - to take him aside a few hours later, her heart breaking in her eyes but her face set like stone, “He is dead, Bellamy.  He does not care what we do with his body now.”   

But Bellamy cared.  

Still, at least Milo would be buried within sight of Clarke’s grave.  And while seeing it everyday would be a cold, bitter reminder that he could not protect everyone, it did provide him with some comfort that while Milo might not be with all the others they lost, he would still be close to his fellow leader.  

And now, an outrageous amount of alcohol in his veins, he was able to spill out his grief and exhaustion to Clarke.

But the words that were the most truthful, the words that scraped against his throat and burned like the moonshine, came out of him as if dragged.  

He was ashamed, choking on the guilt, but he had to confess otherwise it would just strangle him in the coming days.  

“I couldn’t protect him.  God, Clarke, how did we keep them alive before?  That was all you.”  

Another deep swallow of the moonshine.  

“I can’t do this.  I can’t lose them, Clarke, I can’t lose anyone.  I don’t know how to do it, I don’t know how to shoulder the load and keep on going.  I don’t know how to be strong for the others when I am breaking apart at the seams.”  

Two more bitter swallows.  

Tears started beading at the corners of his eyes again, cutting hot tracks over his cheekbones and jaw.  

“What does it say about me that when I took the tourniquet off of his leg, for a split second I was resentful of what I had to do?  Did you feel that way with Atom?  Did you hate him for making you do that?  Or Finn?”  

He drained the last of the moonshine so quickly he was in danger of gagging it all back up.  

"What does it say about me,” he whispered like a hoarse confessional, “That I am jealous of the kid, because there is a chance that he might get to see you again?"  

Silence fell for a long time.  

When the moon was almost fully overhead, Bellamy forced himself to his feet, the empty thermos a heavy weight in his hands.  

“Look after him, alright princess?  Look after all the ones we lost.”  

The breeze picked up, lifting the ends of his too-long hair.  

With the alcohol blurring the edges of his consciousness, if he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend it was the caress of long, nimble artist’s fingers against his skin.  

.

.

.

The days steadily grew hotter and hotter, the sun gaining strength with every rising and setting.  

Abby looked back up at the shelves of medicine and smiled - a small smile, albeit, but a smile just the same.  

Sometimes, she was struck by just how very lucky they had been.

Most of the medicine had survived the crash, only a few vials here and there that broke.  But more than that, some of the machines to engineer the medicine survived the crash as well.  And the machinery that they had lost in the crash had been supplemented by what they had in the mountain.  

While they might not ever have the level of sophistication they had before, they would be able to engineer at least some antibiotics and pain-killers, propofol and other anesthetics, and the regular saline solutions as well.  They would be able to sterilize instruments, and conduct minor surgeries if need be. 

Nyko had advised her to not tell many about the strength of their medicine; they had gotten so far without it, and spreading the news of their power would not go a long way into fostering goodwill.  It would make them seem too much like the mountain.  

Nyko had been showing her - as well as Harper McIntyre, who had shown up at the medbay one day with her hair in a tight braid and determination on her face - the medicinal herbs and what they used them for, taught her the way that they had treated themselves for generations. 

Slowly, the shelves full of medicine and vials gained jars of herbs, crushed seaweed, and other plants from the ground.  Jars full of the clay paste that she smeared on sunburns of the lightest skinned among them, and many others full of small plants in the window, where she could start to grow her own herbs and medicines.

Abby remembered how excited she had been when Nyko had gifted her several obsidian blades.  They had only had a few when the Ark had been in orbit, and they had been precious.  

Nyko had been quite amused at her excitement.  

She shut the door to the med cabinet, locking it behind her. 

Harper was folding up blankets on the far side of the room, putting them up on shelves next to pillows, just neatening up the medbay. 

It was getting to be later in the afternoon, near dinner.  Outside, the sky was still light, just beginning to be streaked with orange and pink. 

It reminded her - like most things did - of Clarke. 

How, as a toddler, she had painted the walls of her room in smears of bright colors. How she and Jake had scolded her, but neither of them could remain strong in the face of their precious daughter and her big blue eyes.  How Clarke’s favorite colors had always been the soft colors of the sunset - deep purples, pale pinks and oranges, soft reds. 

_Oh, how Clarke must have loved the sunsets on earth._

“Harper, it’s almost dinner.  Why don’t you go on ahead?  I’ll finish up here.”

Harper hesitated for a long moment, but eventually nodded and headed out of the medbay. 

Abby sighed, and let herself sit and relax in the silence for a long moment. 

As a doctor, she had been forced to learn how to compartmentalize.  She couldn’t save every patient, especially with the rationing of medication. 

Losing a patient was inevitable.  And every patient was something to someone.  A friend, a child, a parent.

She remembered the first patient she lost. 

His name had been Diego Rosa.  He had been only nineteen years old, from Mecha station.  He had been working with a mechanical saw when a freak accident happened. The nail holding the saw to the machine had broken in half, sending it careening off to the side. It has sliced right through his femoral artery on his thigh. 

It was an injury not unlike the one Milo had suffered. 

By the time his coworkers had gotten him to the medbay, he had already lost more blood than they were allotted to give him.  

He had died on the table, before she had even been able to attempt to stabilize him. 

She had to go out to his parents - just two regular people from Mecha station, who tried their hardest to raise their child with everything they had - and tell them that he was gone. 

She remembered the look of devastation - of cold, endless grief - on his mother’s face.  Remembered how with her words, she had completely destroyed that woman’s world. 

She had gone home that night and cried into Jake’s shoulder, cried for the mother who had lost her child, for Diego - god, just a child - whose life had been cut too short. 

And years later, once she became a mother herself, if she lost a patient, she would go back home to her quarters and cry into Jake’s shoulder, before standing over Clarke’s crib to watch the small toddler sleep, thanking every god there might be for her child. 

_No parent should have to outlive their child._

And now here she was, one of those parents. 

A soft knock drew her out of her thoughts. 

Nyko was standing in the doorway, a linen-wrapped bundle in his arms. 

“Hello, Abby.”

“Nyko,” she said warmly, mildly surprised.  Lincoln had told them that his friend was to visit that week, but she had not expected him so soon.

“I have something for you,” he crossed the medbay to where she was sitting on the edge of one of the beds, perching next to her. 

Nyko handed her the small bundle, and she was surprised at the weight of it. 

Unwrapping it, she saw a medium sized bowl, carved out of heavy stone.  It was a mortar and pestle, the heavy carved pestle wrapped in its own length of linen. 

“It is used to grind up herbs and plants into a fine grain. It helps when mixing poultices and medicines, for it allows the release of the medicinal properties more effectively. 

“Thank you, very much.” 

Abby stood and carefully placed it next to the small collection of jars in the window. 

“Thank you,” she repeated, “For all that you have done for us.”

“You are now our allies,” Nyko intoned, his serious expression not changing. 

“It’s what Clarke had pushed for,” Abby felt the words slip out of her mouth. “She had a lot of respect for you.” 

Nyko sighed. 

“It is not an easy burden, carrying the loss of a child.”

Abby bristled, her grief at the reminder of her daughter - whose hopes and dreams and sacrifices were finally coming to fruition but she was not there to see - making her snap back at the man. 

“Please, spare me empty comforting and pity.”

“It is not empty, nor is it pity,” his voice stayed annoyingly level, “It is sympathy, for your loss is not unfamiliar.”

Her anger and defensiveness faded as quickly as it came. 

When she spoke, she was almost ashamed at how weary she sounded. 

“How can you know?”

Nyko remained expressionless, yet calm. 

“I lost my daughter before she was even a quarter of Clarke’s age.”

Abby walked slowly back to where he was sitting. Instead of sitting next to him as she had been before, she sat on the edge of the bed across from him.  

He seemed to understand her silent question. 

“Many years ago, my chosen - Nova - fell pregnant.  We were blessed. We had so desperately wanted a child. 

Nyko looked down at his hands, at the small band of tattoos around his wrist.  Lincoln had told them how they were sometimes used as “chosen” marks, something deeper and more meaningful to them than marriage. 

She wondered in the dainty design - almost like ivy - were his marks he shared with his chosen. 

“Pregnancies are hard for our people.  We lose many women and babes to sicknesses. Miscarriages are more common than not.  Nova went into labor too early. She died of infection after she gave birth. I could do nothing to save her.”

Abby could barely catch her breath, so engrossed she was in the story.  

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered in the lull of silence. She was not unaware of the irony of her offering him sympathy when she had snapped at him for his initially. 

“Our baby survived the birth. A little girl. I named her River.”

Nyko’s eyes were distant, his voice even. Too even. It was the kind of tone one used when trying to speak of something so insurmountable painful, they pushed all emotion from their body in order to be able to speak the words. 

“Because she was born so early, her lungs were very weak.  Many nights, would stay awake just to make sure she was still breathing.  Many days, I thought she would not make it.  But she did.” 

His gaze, while distant, seemed to lighten up with the joy of the memories. 

“She was such a bright, happy child. She loved flowers, would pick so many of them she could not hold them all.  She would sing so beautifully, even the most hardened of our warriors would stop to listen to her, as young as she was.”

“When she was five, she caught a cold. It should have been nothing, many in our village had endured and survived.  But she got sicker and sicker, for her lungs could not take the strain.  She died, stricken with fever and gasping for breath, in my arms.”

Abby laid a hand on his arm. 

For a long moment, they stayed suspended there in silence.  

Two childless parents, forever carrying a grief that would never dull. 

“I’m sorry.  I’m sorry you lost River."

“And I am sorry you lost Clarke.”

He laid a hand over hers where it was resting on his forearm, squeezing it slightly. 

It was a moment of kinship, an understanding between friends. A moment when a grief that could only be understood if experiences united them in an understanding neither of them wished to understand.

But they endured anyway. Not because they wanted to, or because they had strength that others didn’t. 

They endured because they had no other choice.

They had a life to live now, one that would be worthy of their lost children. 

.

.

.

“You better be planning on sharing that,” Raven snarked. 

Bellamy’s head lolled on his neck as he tilted his chin to look up at the mechanic. 

“I’m drinking in the privacy of my own cabin, I am not required to share.”

“You are sitting against the back of your cabin, you’re not actually in it. Come on, Blake, sharing is fucking caring.”

He snorted, but when Raven awkwardly lowered herself next to him - her knee brace creaking a bit with the movement - he passed her the moonshine without anymore complaint. 

They sat in silence, passing the alcohol between them. 

“You’re not the only one who misses her,” Raven’s tone was airy, purposefully light, but he could hear the fragility in her tone, the edge of a pain so sharp it cut like a knife. 

He swallowed a mouthful of alcohol instead of answering. 

“And you can’t just keep drowning your sorrows in alcohol,” she continued. 

“There’s not enough alcohol in the world to drown those bastards,” he tried to joke, but it fell flat. 

He suddenly couldn’t stomach the thought of drinking another sip - he didn’t want to become the kind of person that depended on alcohol to function - so he handed the bottle to Raven quickly. 

Victorious, she took one last swig for herself and then screwed the cap on tightly, before setting it to the side. 

“She wouldn’t want you to grieve her,” Raven didn’t look at him, instead kept her gaze on the horizon. 

“He wouldn’t have wanted you to grieve him either.”

Raven scoffed, a bitter laugh that made him flinch. 

“He was selfish, of course he would have wanted it.”

Raven was not blind to Finn’s faults, though she loved him. He had saved her, had been the only one who ever gave a damn about her. He made sure she didn’t starve when her mother traded all their portions for alcohol, and had taken the fall for the spacewalk that would have ended in her getting floated. 

He could be selfless when he loved someone or believed in what he was doing, she knew, but he was also selfish in his desires, and had his own skewed sense of morality.  

He hadn’t waited even two weeks before he moved onto another girl. He had murdered innocents because he was focused only on Clarke. He had been about peace when it suited him, and felt little to no guilt for those caught on the fringes of his actions.  

Yes, she had loved him with everything she had, but he had not done the same for her. 

And she knew she deserved more. 

Bellamy and Clarke, though...

Raven envied a love like theirs. 

Finn had barely grieved her ten days before he made a move on someone else, and Bellamy was all but drowning in how much he loved Clarke. 

Raven missed Clarke, missed the girl who had first been just a reminder of how Finn had been so unfaithful, but had then become her best friend.  Clarke had seen her for not just who she was, but who she wanted to be.  Clarke had become her best and truest friend at a time when Raven needed someone to look at her and say, “You are worthy of love.”  

Raven wished she had been able to tell Clarke that she had forgiven her for Finn, that she was so thankful for the blond’s friendship.  

It was so different, being friends with someone who would sacrifice just as much for you as you would for them.

“You have to take better care of yourself,” Raven scolded gently, finally turning to look at Bellamy’s profile. He still staunchly refused to look at her.  

She could see the bags under his eyes, the skin there bruised deep purple. He had lost weight, and his shoulders seemed constantly slumped with exhaustion. 

He was burning himself out, trying to do everything for everyone else. 

Clarke had been the same. 

But Bellamy had taken care of her, and she had taken care of him, and it had balanced out. 

Now there was no one to do that for him. 

Aching with how much she missed her friend in that moment, Raven made a silent promise. 

_I’ll look after him, Clarke. I’ll try. I promise._

Bellamy was her friend too, was someone she would follow without question.  He had earned her respect, and she did not give it out lightly. 

“I hate that all she has is a wooden cross. I hate that she...that she was alone when it happened. I hate that everyday, we live in peace she died for and never got to experience,” Bellamy blurted out, his words a bit slurred. 

She pretended she didn’t hear the tears in his voice. 

“I hate that she traded herself for all of us without saying goodbye, I hate that with her too, and I hate that I never had a chance to thank her, really thank her, for sparing Finn a much more painful death,” she admitted, the words pulling at a raw wound, the regret she felt spilling over. 

Bellamy tilted his head back, looking up to the sky that was slowly darkening. 

“I...I don’t know how to do this without her,” Bellamy admitted, sounding like a lost child. 

“Neither do I,” she admitted, “But we gotta try.  For Clarke.”

“For Clarke.”

.

.

.

Later the next day, Raven stopped Lincoln to subtly ask him several questions.

From the look on his face, he saw straight through her attempts to be inconspicuous. But his expression had softened, and he had promised to try and help her. 

She had gone back to the room set aside for her to work in mildly pacified. 

She might not be able to help Bellamy with everything, but _damnit_ , she could do this. 

And Clarke deserved it. 

.

.

.

Two weeks after his little talk with Raven, Bellamy swung by Clarke’s grave for what had become a near-daily visit. 

He was only halfway up the small hill when he noticed something different and stopped short.  

He had seen photos of gravestones, of course, in his pre-Atomic Earth History classes.  

This one, was a plain stone, probably about shoulder height on him when he was sitting on the ground.  A little rough, not completely symmetrical, but there.  

And carved into the face of the stone were: 

_Clarke Griffin_

_Daughter, Friend, Leader, Protector_

_May we meet again_

Bellamy felt his throat close and his eyes well with tears, but he forced himself to keep moving forward.  He stood there for a long moment, looking down at the headstone that had so lovingly been crafted for their fallen leader.  

He silently ran his fingers along the curves of each of the letters of her name. 

“Hey princess,” he whispered, ignoring how his own voice broke on every syllable, “I see you got a makeover.  You look good.” 

.

. 

. 

That night, when he had sat down at the communal tables for dinner - surprising the hell out of everyone, as he had been avoiding them because it was often a battle to choke down food - he made sure to sit near Raven and Lincoln. 

 

Neither of them said anything when he stopped them each and solemnly said “Thank you,” but they knew what he was talking about. 

 

Lincoln merely nodded, thankfully not saying anything back. 

 

Raven smiled a bit, her eyes sad, when she merely squeezed his upper arm as she passed, quietly whispering back under her breath, “Of course. We loved her, too.”

.

.

.

The next night, he goes to the small bonfire that the majority of the remaining hundred tended to gather around. 

Just like when he came to the communal dinner, they looked at him a bit in shock - and apprehension mixed with excitement - before they welcomed him in enthusiastically. 

Monty and Jasper had tried to cajole him into drinking with them, but he declined. 

He barely had a moment to, before Octavia appeared out of nowhere and dragged him over to a log to sit. 

Bellamy felt a sharp sting of regret, for he knew he had been neglecting Octavia.

“It’s good to see out and about, Big Brother,” Octavia teased him, bumping her shoulders against his playfully.  She had given him some of the Trikru ale that she had been drinking, and he found he liked the hoppy, earthy taste of it. 

“I’ve missed you, O,” he wrapped an arm around her and pressed a kiss to the side of her temple. 

She made a face at him but leaned more heavily into his side, so he knew she wasn’t really annoyed at him. 

It had been so long since they had been able to be this comfortable with each other without tension, and he relished in it. 

“I’ve missed you too, Bellamy. I’m glad you’re finding your way back." 

He closed his eyes, letting the moment wash over him. 

His sister leaning against his side, his people - his _kids_ \- laughing around him, the crushing weight of grief that was slowly becoming easier to carry. 

Not because it diminished or got lighter - he was just getting a stronger, better grip on carrying it. 

“I’m trying, O. I promise, I’m trying.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! 
> 
> Now, we have seen how Bellamy is dealing with the fallout of Mt. Weather. In my head, the fall of the Mountain occurred around the beginning of May, so the beginning of the summer. I have also played around with the number of the kids that survived, as well as the number of the Arkers that survived, just for the sake of the fic.
> 
> I can tell you that the reunion between Bellamy and Clarke is coming! I want to make sure I have all the characters in the right place and the right mindset for what I want to do! 
> 
> Thank you all so much for all the comments, kudos, and subscriptions! Please keep them coming, they are the food that keeps my motivation and inspiration up! I also love to hear what you guys want to see more of! 
> 
> I am really going to be going in my own direction with this, and while there may be some characters and elements from the show, they are not going to be exactly what happened - mostly cause I did not watch the show after the first few episodes of season three. Also, there is going to be a LOT more Greek Mythology here and there once we really get into the bulk of the story! 
> 
> Thank you all for your patience, please keep telling me what you think!


	4. iv.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Warnings:** Description of Injuries, Deaths, and Fight Scenes

_**"Perhaps it is the greatest grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone.”** _

\- _Madeline Miller_ , The Song of Achilles

 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

 

_**One Month Post-Battle of Mt. Weather** _

_**Skaikru Territory** _

 

“ _That’s_ edible?”

Lincoln laughed at the look of incredulous disgust on Bellamy’s face.  

They were knelt by the river, with Octavia and Monty a bit further downstream from them, Jasper and Miller equidistantly upstream. 

Nyko and Abby were in a clearing several yards behind them, along with Hannah Green and another Trikru member, Ayala. 

Ayala was a gatherer. She knew the most of the edible and medicinal plants on the ground, and how to combine them the most effective way.  It was a profession that held a lot of esteem in the clans, one that took decades of study and training under a master to earn.  She was as valued as Nyko was as a healer. 

Ayala’s chosen, Mycah, was back at camp with the survivors of Argo station.  Mycah was the one in charge of organizing the communal harvest, and she was teaching the rest of the Arkers how best to plant and nurture their own crops, bringing along a precious gift of seeds.  

Currently, Lincoln had in his hand what Bellamy could only describe as tangled, wet hair but in plant form. 

“It’s watercress. Normally, you would just cut the leaves from the surface of the water. Here, this portion,” Lincoln gently ripped off the part of the plant he was talking about. 

“It’s very nutritious, and grows quickly. We put it into soups more often than not. If they are flowering, they tend to be a bit more bitter.”

Bellamy idly remembered reading somewhere that watercress was a staple in the meals eaten by Roman soldiers.

He carefully examined the plant, trying to imprint on his memory what it looked like. 

Lincoln waded through the edges of the river, before motioning Bellamy over again.  

“Look here.” 

He pointed to some three-petaled white flowers.  Lincoln pulled one out, and at the end of the flower was a small tuber.  

“We call them arrowhead potatoes,” Lincoln pointed out the arrowhead shaped leaves underneath the white flowers, clearly what the plant was named for.

“How do you eat these?”  

 “Like any other potato, you can roast them, mash them, do whatever you want.”  Lincoln’s eyes got a bit distant.  “Before she died, my mother would fry thin shavings of them in oil.  They would become crispy and salty.  It was one of my favorite foods.”  

Bellamy knew the cadence of Lincoln’s voice like he knew his own; that of a son who had lost a mother before he was ready.  It was a wound that, while healed, did not ever really stop aching.    

Recognizing that sharing that memory was probably tender, he merely clapped Lincoln on the shoulder and turned back to the river.  

“Lincoln, Bellamy!”  

The two turned to look down at Octavia, who was standing with her pants rolled up past her knees and standing in the middle of the water, a bright smile on her face.  

“Raven just radioed.  The warriors are here to train the others.  We should head back.”  

The two men nodded, wordlessly gathering their things and pulling on their boots.  They slowly gathered the rest of their companions and made their way back to camp.  

Bellamy didn’t think that he would ever get used to the beauty of earth, especially now that they were not fighting for their life and he could actually relax enough to enjoy it.  

While many would not leave Arkadia’s gates, it was more for the sense of safety and security that it provided to a group of people who, for so long, had been confined to the Ark.  While the freedom was welcomed, it was also terrifying to suddenly have so much space around you when you were used to walls.

For the delinquents, it was because many of them remembered the dangers of the forest, and the dangers of the mutated animals that lived within it.

It took them only about half an hour to get back to camp, and everyone milled off at their own pace to where they needed to go.  Lincoln went ahead - after pressing a soft kiss to the top of Octavia’s head - to meet the warriors and help them set up.  

Bellamy and Octavia walked slowly through Arkadia after him.

It had seen tremendous growth in the past month.  

They had been able to clear out a bunch of trees and use the timber to build cabins.  Everyone had a cabin to sleep in now, even if many of them were sharing.  

The rooms within the fallen remains of the Ark were now primarily used for storage, since it was easier to keep vermin and parasites from getting to the food.  The medbay was still housed in there, and while the huge eating area inside was only used in inclement weather, there was still the larger cooking areas that they prepared communal food in.  

But the biggest building they had constructed themselves was the school.  

There were so very few children on the ground - only about twenty-five of them, in a range of ages, the youngest only five years old.  

The education of the children was a mix of regular subjects - math, science, English - and a mix of earth skills with Trikru teachers.  

Lincoln would teach the kids - and many parents and other adults who came to learn as well - Trigedasleng.  It was the common language among the Grounder clans, although many of them have their own dialect.  Trikru mainly used Trigedasleng themselves, and they were the clan that the Arkers would mostly ally with. 

Around the school was a huge clearing, almost a field, that they had left purposefully empty.  

Although Bellamy would have wished for nothing more than for the kids on the ground to have a peaceful childhood, they needed to learn how to fight.  Life on the ground was a constant battle for survival, and they would need to know how to defend themselves.  

Thankfully, most of the kids were in awe of the Trikru warriors that trained them, and saw these lessons not as preparing to fight for their lives, but instead as a fun class where they competed to be the best.  

Currently, the warriors were doing weapons trainings with the older kids, the ones who were strong and old enough to really understand the gravity of being given a sword and taught how to use it.  Lincoln was over there with them, demonstrating how to disarm an opponent slowly with another grounder that Bellamy had not been introduced to yet, but knew by face.

The younger kids were with Harper on the other side of the clearing, teaching them some basic first aid, with Monty and Jasper hanging around and being the live-models when needed.  The little ones giggled as Jasper collapsed dramatically to the ground, clutching his chest.  Monty was shaking his head at his friend, and Harper was rolling her eyes but there was a small smile on her face.  

It was a warm scene to watch.  

The siblings paused on the edges of the field, trying not to interrupt the focus of the kids who were clearly being taught CPR or distract the others who were being drilled in how to properly hold a weapon.

“Lincoln and I are going to escort Hannah Green and Monty to the Trikru village the day,” Octavia announced, her hand resting comfortably and loosely on her belt, close enough to draw her sword at a moment’s notice.  

“Are you going to stay with them?”  

“I am.  Lincoln is going to come back after the first night.”  

“How long do you think that you will be there?”  

Octavia shrugged idly, “However long it takes for Monty and his mom to learn how to set up the hydroponic system they were talking with Mycah.  I think probably at minimum a few days, maybe a week.”  

“Be safe,” he sighed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close enough to press a kiss against her temple.  

Octavia scrunched up her nose in a childish mock-disgust look - looking so incongruous with her warpaint and fierce braids - but still leaned into him.  

The Blake sibling relationship had certainly mended after everything; after seeing Bellamy be sent into the mountain and almost not come out, and after seeing just how Octavia had blossomed into her own person, it became a little bit easier to move past the resentment and tensions that had festered the first few weeks on the ground.  

Looking back, Octavia could see now that all Bellamy had done - all he had ever done - had been him trying to keep her safe and happy, but mostly _safe_.  She had railed against it for a while, so drunk with her first tastes of freedom that she hadn’t seen how much her anger had hurt her brother.  

At the same time, Bellamy got better at stepping back and letting her do her own thing.  For so long, he had been both brother and father to her, trying to protect her from everything, that letting her learn how to protect herself had railed against every instinct he had.  

And yes, part of it had been jealousy and resentment that Octavia no longer seemed to need him, because he needed her to need him so desperately.  Who was he if he was not her brother, if he was not her protector?  How was he supposed to react when she started turning to Lincoln for support when for so long, _he_ had been the one to provide it for her?  

At least now, they were back in a good place; a new normal, but one that was thankfully stable and working.  

He was so _proud_  of her, for becoming the strong, independent person she was.  It made letting go a little bit easier.  

And seeing how much Lincoln loved her helped as well.  

It was comforting to know that there was someone else that would, without hesitation, willingly die for Octavia the way that he would.  

“When do you guys leave?”  

“The day after tomorrow.  We are going to gather supplies, and Monty wants to bring some moonshine as a gift.”  

Bellamy shuddered at the thought of the moonshine that Monty concocted.  Now that he had sworn off of it, his very body seemed to rebel at the thought of drinking it.  

Octavia was amused by his reaction, he could tell.  

“Try not to miss me too much while I’m gone,” she teased lightly, “And when I get back, we will have to do something fun.  I know that the other delinquents were talking about throwing a party in a week and a half.”  

“Ugh, for _what_?”  He groaned, already thinking about how he was going to be harassed to no end to attend a party where he would inevitably end up taking care of too many ridiculously drunk kids.  

“Jasper’s birthday - his eighteenth birthday - is coming up.  He wants to celebrate being alive, and more than that, being free.”  

Oh _great_ , now he really could not complain about it.  

Octavia threw back her head and laughed at the sour expression on his face, and she patted the side of his face before she headed over to where Lincoln was to lend a hand with his lessons.  

“Don’t worry, I’ll bring back some of the ale you like so you don’t have to drink the moonshine!”  She called cheerfully over her shoulder.  

Bellamy merely rolled his eyes and turned to head to the guard tower, but he could not stop a small smile from flitting across his lips as well.   

.

.

.

 

Octavia kept her promise.  

When she came back from the village with Monty and his mother a week later, she had come with two large casks of the grounder ale that he had liked so much. 

Jasper had gotten his wish.  On his birthday - and well away from the main part of Arkadia, where they would not disturb the other families - the delinquents and the other young adults from the Ark threw a massive party.  

It was their first true celebration - not just the bonfires they had occasionally, but a true party - since the fall of the mountain.  

By the time Bellamy had gotten there - about half an hour after it started, since he had been dragging his feet about it - they were all well on their way to being absolutely tanked.

Octavia - bouncing on the balls of her feet, dancing around an amused and surprisingly-sober Lincoln - had pressed the tankard of ale into his hand with a bright command for him to:  “Drink up, Big Bro!” 

He humored her, taking big gulp under her intent gaze.

“Come on, everyone is celebrating!”   

Raven had fixed up some of the music speakers, and so some old, Pre-Atomic music was playing, the bass shaking the old machines and vibrating through his chest. 

There was a mess of people dancing - sloppily - and Octavia dragged him and Lincoln into the mass, throwing her hands up with a bright cheer and dancing to the beat with absolutely no rhythm in her intoxicated state.  

“Bellamy!”  

He froze, like a deer in the sights of a predator.  

Lincoln - the only one sober enough in the immediate vicinity to notice - looked over at his friend sharply, before having to bite down viciously on the inside of his mouth in order to keep from smirking.  

The pretty brunette girl that had called Bellamy’s name was moving with surprising speed through the masses, before stopping a little too close to Bellamy, her smile bright and a hand reaching out to grab his forearm.  

“Bellamy, I’m so glad you came!”  

Bellamy’s smile was as fake and plastic as a mask.  

“Hey Gina,” he slowly extracted his arm from her grip, passing it off as a motion of him moving his mug of ale to the other hand.  

Gina clearly didn’t notice his reaction.  Instead, she just grabbed his free hand again and started to pull him over to another cluster of people on the other side of the clearing.  

“Come on, I wanted to introduce you to some of my friends!  I’ve told them a lot about you!” 

Bellamy shot a frantic look to Octavia - who was absolutely not paying any attention to her trapped brother - before he was forced to simply follow Gina, no way to bow out gracefully.  Instead, Bellamy threw back more of the ale at a much faster clip then he had been the entire beginning of the night.

Lincoln chuckled to himself.  

This should be interesting.  

And maybe it would be good for Bellamy.   

.

.

.

Bellamy regretted _everything_.  

Octavia had come up to him periodically through the night - merely shooting him a cheeky grin and handing him more and more of the grounder ale, instead of saving him from the conversation he had been trapped in - and he had just been sucking down the alcohol in an effort to make himself feel less awkward.  

It wasn’t that he didn’t _like_ Gina.  She was pretty, a genuinely nice girl, and was super smart.  She helped Monty and his mom with the new crops, and she had been the one to give him a few of the paperback books that they had saved from the mountain.  

_The Odyssey_ , one of his favorites.  

But he knew that she was fishing for more out of him - the constant flirting over the past few weeks enough to give _that_ away - but he had yet to find a way to let her down gently.  

Avoidance had certainly not sent the hint clearly enough.

And now, in front of a bunch of her friends that were watching their interactions with barely disguised enthusiasm, it would be really cruel of him to just stand up and walk away.  

So, he sat and suffered and drank way more ale than he had been planning to.  

_That_ is where everything started to go wrong.  

Before he knew it, his head was floaty, and he was sure his cheeks were flushed and hot.  All his muscles were loose and light, none of the residual soreness from the tough physical work he did the past week remaining.  

Gina was leaning more and more heavily into his side as the night wore on, her eyes getting more glazed with alcohol and her inhibitions lowered.  Her curly hair was in a frizzy mess from the heat of the bonfire, but whenever the flame’s light hit it just right, the curls shown a bright copper color.  

Finally, begging away from the cluster of people he had been sitting with - _Why was he sitting with them again?  Why did he want to leave?_  - he stumbled over to Octavia and Lincoln.  

Octavia was smirking at him, her cheeks flushed with alcohol as well.  She was all but sprawled horizontal on Lincoln’s lap, her head resting at an angle that did not seem comfortable on the tall man’s shoulder, her back against his chest and legs spread haphazardly over his thighs.  She held a nearly-full cup of ale in her left hand, listing dangerously to the side.  

For his part, Lincoln did not look uncomfortable; he merely kept an arm wrapped around Octavia’s waist to balance her, his other hand supporting his upper body behind him.  

“Having fun, Bellamy?”  Octavia teased.  

Bellamy tried to give her a glare, but definitely failed.  Instead, he collapsed next to the two, letting his limbs settle where they fell.  

“That’s mean, Octavia,” he grumbled.

“Come on Bellamy, you deserve to have some fun!  And Gina is so into you, it’s not even funny.  You can have fun without it being a marriage proposal.  What happened to the Bellamy that was sleeping with a rotating roster of willing girls the first week we were on the ground?”  

“I am not sober enough for you to be using words like ‘rotating roster,’” Bellamy deflected, his tongue feeling too thick for his mouth as he attempted to keep from slurring.  

“All I am saying is that maybe you would feel better if you got laid!”  

Bellamy bit down hard on his inner lip.   

He knew that his sister’s words came from a place of caring - knew that if she were sober, Octavia would know that she had crossed the line into “too much” about three sentences ago.  

Lincoln - recognizing the expression on Bellamy’s face, even if his sister didn’t - quickly took the ale out of Octavia’s hand, ignoring her pout and whine.

Bellamy grabbed it out of Lincoln’s hand and drained half of it in one go in an effort to blur the echoing pain as much as he could.

Eventually, his muscles were so relaxed and his mind so thankfully blank, that when Gina found him again later on that night, the smile on his face when she continued to talk to him was almost genuine.  

.

.

.

“Princess, I fucked up. Fucking _hell_ , I fucked up so fucking bad.   _Fuck_!”

His hand shook as he ran his fingers through his hair, gripping the curls and tugging them tight enough that the pain brought tears to his eyes.  His skin was already rubbed raw from the short shower he had taken, now pink and irritated. 

No matter how hard he had scrubbed his skin, it hadn’t felt enough.  

He was shivering now in the cold of the early morning - before the sun rose and all but burned them to a crisp - his wet hair not helping him in the slightest.  He knew it had been stupid for him to shower and then run out still dripping wet, but he had to come to see Clarke.  And it seemed disrespectful in every way if he had shown up at her grave, sweaty, alcohol all but leaking out of his pores, still smelling like sex and  _her_.

God, he _hated_ himself. 

After Gina had come back over to him - and Lincoln had half-carried a giggling Octavia back to their cabin - Bellamy had been so far gone enough that his guard was down.  

He had let her kiss him.  

As far gone as he was - and how desperately hungry he was for something _warm_ and _alive_ to fill the hole in his chest that _never went away_  - he had kissed her back. 

And woken up hours later, sweaty, naked, a raging headache pounding in his temples, and Gina sleeping contently next to him. 

He had thrown himself out of bed - not his own, thankfully - and grabbed his clothes off the floor and bolted out of her cabin and sprinted to his own. 

He had barely made it to his knees next to a bucket in his cabin before he was throwing up everything in his stomach. 

It was only partly from his hangover. 

Mostly, from his own _disgust_ with himself. 

His mom had raised him better than to use girls like he had just used Gina - which, he he did use her, even if she had been a willing participant.  Gina had been looking for something romantic, something permanent, and he certainly was not.

It felt like a betrayal, too. 

A betrayal to Clarke, for having forgotten for one night that she was gone.  A betrayal to her, because after he had started to care for her, he had stopped sleeping around with the other girls on the ground.  A betrayal to his heart, when his mind had been out of commission.

They may have never been in a formal relationship, may never have spoken the words aloud of how much they meant to each other, may have only shared one rushed kiss before she was gone, but it _meant_  something.    

It felt like he had _cheated_  on Clarke, and the thought of her face if she could see him now made him want to throw up all over again.  

On his knees in front of her grave, Bellamy felt _lost_.  

In the moment, he had tried to let go of his grief.  He had tried to let loose and let the weight fall.  

And as soon as he did, the panic had hit him like a blow. 

How could he let go of the grief, when it felt like he was letting _Clarke_ go?  

How could he let himself hold onto someone else, when he had spent so long holding onto her?

Was it moving on?  

Was it getting over grief?

Was it _forgetting_  her?

He didn’t know.  

A part of him didn’t want to ever find out. 

.

.

.

Gina had smiled to him at dinner that night.  

It was sad, small smile, her eyes glassy with the beginnings of tears.  

The resignation and disappointment in her gaze cut him deep.  

He had wanted her to take the hint, but not like this.   

.

.

.

Octavia chewed on her bottom lip, arms crossed tightly over her chest as she watched her brother.  

It had been a few days since Jasper’s disastrous birthday bonfire - well, not _completely_ disastrous because Jasper had had fun, which was the whole point of the night - and she was worried about her brother.  

She had been worried about Bellamy ever since they had come back from the mountain.  

He was good at faking it.  Really good.  

While no one would think that he was bouncing back after losing Clarke, the front that he put up was enough to not have everyone staring at him in concern at all hours of the day.

She had seen him turn a little too heavily to the drink, and she had been relieved beyond measure when he pulled himself out it. 

But there was a sadness to his eyes that never faded.  It was like a stain, one that would never go away no matter how much you tried to scrub it away.  Even as it lightened with time, it would always be there.

She saw how he walked, his gait just slightly off, as if his body was still subconsciously making room for someone smaller to walk next to him. 

She knew that every day, sometimes multiple times a day, he would slip away from camp and trek up the hill to Clarke’s grave.  She could see his shape up on that hill, sometimes just standing, sometimes sitting next to her.  He would linger for a few minutes, sometimes for hours.  

There were times that he would whip his head around, as if he had gotten a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eyes and his instincts had him turning before his mind caught up.  She could see his jaw clench, could see his hands tightening into fists when the realization hit him that it was not what he thought.  

That the flash of golden hair our of the corner of his eye was _not_ Clarke, that it would _never_  be her again. 

She watched her brother crumble a little bit every day, over and over again, and felt more helpless than she ever did before because nothing - not even getting drunk, hooking up with Gina, and letting out pent up aggression - was helping.  

And Octavia didn’t know what else to do.  

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.

.

_**One Month, Two Weeks Post-Battle of Mt. Weather** _

_**Skaikru Territory** _

 

When she was summoned by Indra, Octavia did not think much of it.  

As she packed her things into her bag, she wished she could find the words to apologize to her brother.  

Bellamy had not been ready to sleep with Gina, had not been ready to be that close to _anyone_.  And seeing how he was the day after - shaking, guilt and grief and _shame_  leaking out of his pores at every turn - nearly made her cry.  

She didn’t know how to help him, and it felt like every time she tried to do something, she ended up hurting him more.  

So before she left for Indra’s village, she hugged Bellamy tightly, her guilt at pushing him into something he had not been ready for making her hold on just a bit more tightly than she normally did.  

The small kiss against the top of her head before was a silent forgiveness.  

The guilt still did not abate.   

.

.

.

“We need to talk.”  

Lincoln, while not the most expressive person ever, was even more stoic.  Octavia did not look much better; she was tightly coiled tension, almost shaking with the force of how tightly she was trying to keep herself reigned in.  

“I take it that the meeting with Indra did not go well?”  

“Bellamy, not here.  Where are Marcus and Abby?”  

Bellamy had never heard his sister sound so tense.  

His concern now skyrocketing, the controlled panic that he was all too familiar with - _how to protect everyone what could the threat be how to keep them safe_  - he turned and headed into the Ark, where he was sure that Marcus and Abby were.  

Abby was in the medbay with Harper, as usual.  The minute the doctor looked up and saw the three of them lingering in the doorway, stress cutting deep lines in their faces, she shot upright.  

“What is happening?”  

“Where is Marcus?”  Octavia asked instead of answering.  

Abby frowned, clearly not happy with the non-answer.  

“He is probably in the meeting room.  Do we need anyone else?”  

“Just anyone you think should be there.”  

Abby turned to Harper.  

“Harper, can you go find David Miller, please?  And then keep doing what you are doing.  I will be back shortly.”  

Harper nodded, and went off to find the head of the guard while Abby followed them to the meeting room. 

Marcus did not look surprised to see them all appear, but he did visibly steel himself. 

“Are we waiting for anyone?”  

“Just David.  Lincoln and Octavia had been summoned by Indra, as you know.  There is clearly some…serious news.”  

Everyone turned to look at Lincoln and Octavia, who merely straightened their spines.  

“Once Chief Miller comes, we will tell the whole story.  It is…well, we will let you judge how you want to proceed with what we tell you.”  

Octavia was hedging, he could tell.  He just didn’t know if his sister was being evasive because the information she had learned was sensitive, or because she did not know how the others would take it.  

David walked into the room not long after, his expression wary.  It did not go away when he read the tension in the room  

“What is going on?”

“We were just waiting for you so that Lincoln and Octavia could fill us in,” Marcus soothed as best as he could.  

In a move that was a mirror of his son, David crossed his arms tightly over his chest and settled back onto his heels to listen. 

Lincoln started, each word measured and careful.

“First, you must know this.  My people take very seriously the legends and superstitions of the land, the ones that have been passed down since the bombs fell.  While to you they may seem like nothing more than fairytales, you have to remember that to my people, their importance cannot be overstated.”  

Lincoln settled against the side of the table, folding his arms and settling in.  Octavia stuck close to his side.  From the angle he was standing at, he could see that where Lincoln’s hand was crossed by his side, he was twining the tips of his fingers with hers.  

“One of them, one of our most mysterious and sacred myths, is that of the _w_ _anheda_.”

“What is it?”  

“Not an _it_ , a _who_.”  

“Is it like a god or goddess?”  Marcus asked, his tone clearly showing, along with his expression, that he no longer held much concern for the news that Lincoln was bearing.  

Bellamy thought it was mighty ignorant of Marcus to automatically assume that “myths” meant “false.”  

“Our people believe that when you kill someone, you absorb their life force, their power.  It is why we scar ourselves to signify the kills.” 

Lincoln and Octavia exchanged loaded looks again.  

Bellamy rubbed at the ache in his chest absentmindedly; it was familiar, as familiar as that look.  

He and Clarke used to talk to each other without words like that as well.  

Octavia started talking quickly, almost like she just wanted the story over.  

“Of course, there are always those who kill for selfish reasons, who kill because they want to and not because they have to.  A _wanheda_  is someone who has only taken a life because they _had_ to, and not for selfish reasons.” 

“So, how are you bestowed that title?”  Abby asked, clearly seeing the flaw in the system, “Who can judge if your actions were actually selfless?”  

“That is where our mythology comes in, because the title of _wanheda_  is not one that is given to just anyone, nor is it given to someone by the living.”  

“ _Not_ given by the living?  Who else would give it to you?”  David spluttered.  

Lincoln met the older man’s gaze solemnly.  

“We believe in the gods and goddesses of the land.  And our belief is that when someone dies, they are judged.  If they are worthy, if they have only killed because they had to, to protect people, they are brought back as a _wanheda_  to be a commander of Death.”

Silence reigned in the small room.  

“Wait, wait, wait, wait,” Marcus sat up straight, his hand in the air as he leaned over his legs, keeping his gaze on Lincoln.  

“You are telling me,” Bellamy winced, for Marcus’ tone was not that of someone who was taking this seriously, “That you believe that a god or goddess of death or whatever judges someone, and if they pass muster he brings them back from the dead as this _wanheda_?”

“In traditional mythology, it is Thanatos that is the actual god of death,” Bellamy chimed in, trying to alleviate the tension building in the room, “Although many used to attribute it to Hades, or Pluto in Roman mythology.  He was the ruler of the Underworld, where the souls of the dead were kept in certain areas that reflected how they lived their lives.” 

“As interesting as this mythology is,” Abby cut in, voice purposefully neutral, “What does this have to do with your meeting with Indra?”

“Everything, it has everything to do with why we were summoned,” Lincoln snapped, his iron-strong grasp on his neutrality starting to slip with his frustration.  

“You may not believe in our myths and traditions, but here is what it is.  A _wanheda_ is someone to be revered, because they have been judged and found worthy.  According to our myths, they are brought back with powers, with abilities far beyond any mortal.  And while they are revered, they are also feared and hunted.  Feared for what they could do, hunted because they believe that whoever controls a _wanheda_  controls Death.”  

“Indra called us because there are rumors spreading that there is a _wanheda_ , for the first time in nearly a century.  Already, Lexa’s position with the Coalition is precarious after her betrayal at the Mountain.  And Azgeda, the Ice Nation that had to be forced into joining the coalition through war, is looking for any advantage to overthrow Lexa.”  

“And we are now on the boarder next to Azgeda,” Abby said in horror.  

“Yes.  So, if Azgeda attacks, you would most likely see them come through you land,” Lincoln turned to Bellamy, “And you all know the lengths that Lexa will go.”  

The minute the words were out of his mouth, his jaw snapped shut, eyes widening as if he just realized what he had said.  

Bellamy flinched, his lungs aching; he couldn’t draw breath into his lungs.  

He did know the lengths that Lexa would go.  

He had been left behind to die for her choices, and Clarke had paid the ultimate sacrifice for it.  

“Bellamy,” Octavia whispered, half reaching out to comfort her brother.  

He steeled himself, forced himself to focus.  Lincoln was looking at him apologetically, regret clear.  

“I am sorry, Bellamy,” he whispered.  

“It is alright,” he waved them away, trying to forget the words, “But we need to be on alert now.  I do not know who this _wanheda_  is, if the myths you say are true, or if any of it will directly threaten us, but we have to focus on the imminent threat it brings.  Which, right now, is Lexa’s precarious position within the coalition, and the threat of Azgeda crossing into our land with thoughts of war.”  

“There is no way that Lexa would try and force us to fight for her, is there?”  Abby bit out, her eyes darkening with anger that always rose to the surface when she thought of the Commander.  “If there is a chance that Azgeda will just pass through out lands and not attack us, she cannot compel us to fight in her name after she left our people to die.”  

Octavia’s expression darkened.  

“Theoretically, she can.  You are a clan in the coalition under her command even if the formal ceremony has not been done, and you would be honor bound to fight.  But, with her betrayal, there would be more than a few clans that would agree with you refusing to help her.  But that would weaken the coalition, and risk fracturing us into more war.”  

Abby’s expression soured; so did Bellamy’s.  

For as much as he understood that they had to operate for the bigger picture, both of them wished that they would have had the opportunity to turn the tables on the Commander.  

How viscously satisfying it would have been to turn away from her in her time of need the way she had abandoned and betrayed them in theirs.  

. 

.

.

“What do you think of this?”  

Abby and Marcus were the only two left in the room.  

Lincoln, Octavia and Bellamy had booked it out as soon as they could, the pinched looks on their faces telling Abby that they were going to convene their own small council - Monty, Jasper, Miller, Harper, and Raven - and talk it over themselves.

“I think that this might just been a normal myth that is being applied to some poor person,” Marcus sighed, his shoulders curved with exhaustion.  

“You do not think that this is something for us to be concerned about?”  

Abby could not shake the feeling deep in her gut that this was something important.  It was the same kind of doctor’s intuition that had led her to make the correct diagnosis, that had helped her to save lives, and she was reluctant to not listen to it.  

“I think it is something for us to keep in mind, but do I really believe that a god has brought back a person from the dead? No.  When people are dead, they are gone forever.”  

Abby flinched minutely, and Marcus wished he could take the words back immediately.  

“Abby-“

“No, it’s alright Marcus,” Abby said, her voice even and emotion carefully cut out of it, “I know what you meant.”  

Silence fell between the two.  

Marcus ached to somehow reach across the gulf between them, to pull her back from her memories, to keep her eyes from going that distant and lost and bereaved again.  

He held himself back, because he knew that in these moments, withdrawn and sad as she was, were the moments that she was closest to Clarke.  

“It’s too bad, though,” Abby forced the words out with more levity than she really felt, “It would be nice to have some kind of protective justice on our side for once, supernatural or not."

Marcus chuckled lightly, but it still came out just too much like a scoff to be a true laugh.  

“We can always dream." 

.

.

.

_**Three Months Post-Battle of Mt. Weather** _

_**Skaikru Territory** _

 

“I have received more news,” Lincoln handed Bellamy a green apple as he straightened up, propping his rucksack against the wall of the cabin that he shared with Octavia when he was in Arkadia.  

“I am getting sick of you saying that,” Bellamy joked before taking a giant bite of his apple.  The crunch was satisfying, the fruit tart and sweet and unlike anything he had ever tasted before the ground.  There was so few fresh fruit, with Argo station only being able to produce anything, and he and his mother had never been able to afford the rare commodities.  

Lincoln grabbed his own apple - his preference the light pink ones that were almost sugar-sweet - and took a bite as he and Bellamy walked slowly towards the Ark.  

“It is not something to be concerned about, not in the grand scheme of things.  Prince Roan of Azgeda, the only heir to the throne, was exiled a while ago.  His mother, Queen Nia, is absolutely ruthless.  Lexa has a bounty on his head as well, since the Ice Nation was responsible for her lover’s torture and murder.” 

“What did you hear?” 

“Just that he was spotted near the Azgeda-Skaikru border.  I wanted to warn you, in case Ice Nation warriors cross to your territory in an attempt to find him.”  

“Are they allowed to do that?”  

Lincoln grimced.  

“Not technically, but most clans will allow other delegations to cross borders in pursuit of someone who broke their laws in their territory, just out of respect for their sovereignty.  I would say to let it go, but if you do come across them, really push that Queen Nia needs to give fair warning otherwise you will take action.  Even if you do not follow through with that threat, if you do not put on a show of force the first time, there is going to be consequences if she thinks she can send people over into your territory without consequence.”  

Bellamy nodded, internally groaning at the thought of the politics and the maneuverings and shows of strength that they would need to do now.  He made a mental note to tell Marcus and Abby.  

Hopefully this was something that he would not have to handle.   

.

.

.

If there was one thing that Raven was exceptionally proud of, it was the Rover.  

Made out of pieces from the wreckage of Ark, she had been able to use some old engines from the spacecraft and create an all-terrain vehicle for them to use on the ground.

It had taken her _months_ in order to get it to work - and it had been a project in patience and teamwork, with Jasper, Monty, Sinclair, and the annoying engineer, Kyle Wick.  

But it had been well worth it.  

They were showing the ground that they were formidable in their own right.  They were adapting for their environment.  The rover could be used to transport goods and people, and it could be used to patrol their borders.  

And if Raven had a secret dream of one day being able to go to the ocean, she kept it to herself.  

Hunched over, her bum knee screaming at her for the contorted position, Raven carefully tightened the last gear on the suspension, her eyes flickering back and forth to make sure that there was nothing she had missed.  

“Come on, Raven, we just did a maintenance check on it yesterday.  The patrol needs to head out soon if they want to be back in time for dinner.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” she mumbled back, lingering an extra second to make a point before scooting back out from underneath it.  

Sinclair shook his head at her before half-turning away, mumbling, “Such a perfectionist,” but the underlying tone of pride belayed the teasing nature of his words.

Raven allowed herself a split second of pride.

“Hey Raven,” Miller called out, his bag and gun slung over his shoulder.  He, Bellamy, Lincoln, and Marcus were going on patrol today.  

Raven did not envy them; as much as she loved the rover - it was her baby - she held no illusions that driving in it for long periods of time while patrolling the border wasn’t the most enjoyable thing to do, nor the easiest on your back.  

“Hey, where is our fearless leader?”

“Stop calling me that,” Bellamy groused, walking up behind Miller with his own bag and gun slung across his back. 

Raven beamed brightly and innocently.  

“It’s your proper title!”  

Bellamy gave her a deadpanned look but she could see the humor in his gaze.  

“Come on, you guys apparently need to head out soon if you want to be back in time for dinner,” Raven yanked open the trunk so that Bellamy and Miller could throw their bags in, shutting it behind them.  

“Yeah, we’re just waiting on Lincoln to grab food and a med-pack from Abby, and for Marcus to finish up whatever he was doing,” Bellamy absentmindedly did a quick check of the rover, making sure that they had everything.  

“Well, hope you have a boring patrol,” Raven said in farewell, punching Bellamy in the arm and Miller in the side teasingly as she gathered up her tools to head back into her workroom that she had commandeered for herself. 

In a little bit of time, Lincoln and Marcus joined them at the rover with the needed supplies.  A few minutes later, they were all strapped into the rover and leading out on their patrol.  

.

.

.

The patrol got real old, real quick.  

Thankfully, they were not doing a full patrol.  That would take them roughly three days to do a complete circle of their lands and borders.  As it was, this patrol was going to take almost the entire day, maybe even into the night.

After Bellamy had passed on Lincoln’s warning about the exiled prince of Azgeda, Marcus and Abby had decided that they should patrol the border they shared with Azgeda every few days, just in case some warriors crossed into their territory with no warning.

While Bellamy did enjoy working on the guard, and even though he did like getting out of camp, the patrol always seemed much more interesting on paper than it was in reality.  

There was only so long that he could stare out the window at trees, leaves, and then open plains before it got to be a bit boring. 

Hour five rolled around, and he groaned low in his throat as he stretched himself as much as he could, his lower back tight and tensing uncomfortably from being in one position for so long.  

“Just a bit longer, Bellamy,” Kane comforted, the older man driving the rover with easy confidence.

“I know,” he groaned, stretching far enough that his lower back popped.  His groan of pain slowly turned into a groan of relief as the tension released, just enough for him to no longer be uncomfortable.

“Look,” Lincoln jerked to his feet, narrowly missing smacking his head against the top of the rover.  He grabbed the back of Bellamy’s seat and pointed through the front window.  

Marcus stopped the rover immediately, and Miller crowded up near Lincoln to see what he was pointing out as well.  

For a moment, Bellamy couldn’t see what Lincoln was trying to show them,  

But then there was movement, far in the distance, and he was able to just barely see it.  

A tall figure, cutting through the grass at a fast clip, several others in pursuit.  

He was being hunted down.

“They are going to kill him,” Marcus breathed, before jerkily trying to unbuckle himself.  

Lincoln stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.  

“Stop, we do not know who they are.”  

“Does it matter?  They need help!”  

“It does matter.  If they are dispensing Azgeda justice, if it is the exiled prince…we risk a war by stopping them before they are in Skaikru territory.”  

Marcus pursed his lips, annoyance and frustration bleeding into his expression, but he settled back into his seat even as his shoulders stiffened with repressed tension.  

“Come on,” Bellamy grabbed his gun, slinging it across his back and reaching for the door, “We can at least make sure that they know they are dangerously close to our borders.  We’ll evaluate the situation once we see more.” 

Lincoln grabbed his own weapons, gingerly tucking a handgun into the holster at his ankle.  He still preferred his old weapons, his knives and a sword when he had it.  Octavia preferred it as well, and in honesty, Bellamy knew that she was a much bigger threat with her weapons than he was with his gun.  

By the time they were all out of the rover, the group of people was close enough that the Arkers were able to make out some distinguishing features.  

Lincoln stiffened next to him.  

“What?” 

“Azgeda bounty hunters,” he pointed to the five pursing the one lone figure, “You can tell by the white furs and the scars on their faces.  And odds are high that if there are that many, then it is the exiled prince that they are hunting.”  

“We can’t just let them take him,” Marcus insisted, but his tone was thick with annoyance and anger, as if he knew that his protests would not be taken seriously but he still needed to voice them.  

“We cannot interfere, either,” Lincoln retorted.  

They could only watch as the five bounty hunters ended up overtaking the man.  

The fight was short and brutal.  

The prince turned, whirling out to attack with a sword.  The others rushed to meet his weapon with their own.

The prince was clearly a well-trained fighter, but the fight was too uneven.  

He managed to disarm and punch down two before the other three overwhelmed him.

Even on the ground, he was kicking and fighting, trying to get back to his feet and regain the advantage.  

He was eventually taken down by a harsh blow to the face, crumpling back to the ground in a dazed heap.  

It was too much for Marcus, who, with a curse under his breath, started forward.  

They all scrambled after him; Lincoln was hissing under his breath in Trigedslang, but Bellamy couldn’t make out what he was saying, and Marcus was clearly ignoring him.   

They had already been within yelling distance, so it didn’t take them that long until they were all standing in the same clearing.  

The bounty hunters had straightened up, standing still and vigilant as they approached.

The prince was kneeling in the middle of the circle of them, panting harshly from the exertion.  One hand his hand wrapped in the matted hair of the prince, yanking his head back far enough that the tendons in the side of his neck stood out in sharp relief.  They had tied his hands tightly behind his back and taken his weapons, which were in a pile to the side of the clearing.

Bellamy tightened his grip on his gun, adrenaline starting to make his body tremble and his palms sweat.

“Is everything alright here?”  Marcus called out.  

One of the men - clearly the leader - stepped forward, hand still wrapped firmly around the hilt of his sword.  His hair was cropped short on the sides, long and tangled down the middle.  The scars on his face were in the shape of lighting bolts from the middle of his forehead down to the middle of his cheeks.  

“We are under commands of our Queen.  We are looking for the _wanheda_ , but we found an exiled traitor as well.  We are dispensing Azgeda justice.  You have no authority here, _Skaikru_ ,” he sneered.

“You are very close to our border,” Marcus kept his face blank, but his voice was steel, “We have every right to ask what you are doing.  We are not looking to interfere.”

“Good,” the tall leader turned and spat to the side, his tone derisive.  “Then continue on your way.”  

“A word of advice to you, _Skaikru_ ,” the one holding the hair of the kneeling prince, “You would do well to not ally yourself with traitors.”

“We are not his allies,” Bellamy spat back.

Roan threw back his head and laughed, a deep, booming laugh the was at odds with the picture he painted as a man captured.

The bounty hunters in the clearing looked at him curiously, wondering what about the situation was humorous to a man who was facing his death.  

Roan met the eyes of the leader of the small group of bounty hunter when his chuckles trailed off.  His grin was macabre, the blood from a cut on his forehead dripping into his eye and his split lip staining his teeth red.

“Oh, you have _no idea_ who my allies are.”  

He looked over the bounty hunter’s shoulder, his face twisted in a wry grin, his eyes smug as he settled back onto his heels, nonchalant and not at all concerned about his situation.

They all turned just in time to see a blur of motion.  

.

.

.

Bellamy barely had a moment to realize what was happening.  

A blur of black and gold streaked through the air, moving almost silently.  A flash of black and silver, and the tall bounty hunter was crumpling to the ground with a sliced throat, blood spraying out in an arch.  

Before his body hit the ground, another was falling, a stab to the heart.  

The other three had their weapons out, yelling out in shock and fear to each other in their native tongue.  

The figure paused for a long second, just long enough for Bellamy to see that it was a girl with golden hair, and then she was bringing up two daggers to block a blow that seemed strong enough to break bones.

The other two rushed her, but she batted away their blows as if they were nothing.  

One lunged, a knife in his hand, aiming to slash at her front.  

She kicked, knocking his knife out of his hand and breaking his wrist all in one motion.  He bellowed in pain, but another kick caught him in his jaw, the force great enough that his neck broke, his head snapping to the side in a sickening angle.  

The other two lunged at her, desperation making their motions wild.  

Her figure blurred with the speed of her motion.  

A slash with a sword aimed at her back had her ducking quickly, before springing back up, whipping around and a dagger going straight through the bottom of his jaw into his brain.  

Bellamy felt bile rise in his throat at the sound the blade made against bone.  

The last bounty hunter was panting, eyes blown wide with fear and adrenaline.  

He made one wild move to the girl with an axe.  He swung with all his might at her side, bellowing with rage and fear. 

She stepped into his space and  _grabbed_  the axe just underneath the head and _wrenched_ it out of his grip.  His body curved with the force of the yank, right onto her blade.  

Her dagger buried itself to the hilt in the bottom of his abdomen. 

His yell of pain trailed off to a gurgle as she yanked the blade out of his stomach and stabbed him in the chest, before letting his body and axe fall to the ground.  

In a matter of seconds, she had managed to dispatch the five men, each of them nearly double her size, with minimal effort.   

Bellamy barely had had a moment to raise his gun.  

Miller cursed behind him, but when the girl turned slightly, her back still to them, she did not make a move to harm them.  

She stood in front of the grinning Prince Roan, hands on her hips. 

Roan looked up at her and gloated lightly, “I told you it would work.”  

“You got injured.” 

“Still got rid of them.”

“We didn’t even need to face them.”

“Where is the fun in that?”  

The girl sighed, before she crossed around him, hair falling into her face to obscure her features.  She took a dagger from her thigh and sliced through the bounds on the prince’s wrist easily, before stepping away so he had room to stand up.

There was something familiar about her.  It was there in the way that she spoke, the mannerisms in her interaction with this prince. 

_Who was she?_

She crossed to the side of the clearing where all of the prince's weapons had been thrown when he was taken down.  She scooped them up and handed them to him quickly.  

“Put yourself together quickly.  We still have an audience.” 

Now that the figure was still and her hair was not obscuring his view, Bellamy was able to make out details of her features. 

And promptly felt like he had been stabbed in the gut.

She was dressed in all black, tight pants tucked into boots and a shirt underneath a jacket, her two daggers tucked into the sheaths strapped on her thighs.  All pristine, not a drop of blood or dirt on her, none of her clothes looking like they were made from furs or leather.  They looked…like someone had taken darkness itself and woven it into fabric, making it ripple and twist while still being still. 

Blond hair, now more pure gold than the light blond it had been, loose in curls down to just below her shoulders, not a single strong out of place even though she had just fought five men.  

Her features were slightly different, the bones in her face just thrown into too-sharp relief.  Her skin was alabaster white, smooth and so pale it looked as though she had been drained of all her blood.  Her lips looked almost too red on her face, and her eyes were like two brilliant sapphires.  

She was strikingly beautiful, but otherworldly; looking at her, her beauty was unnerving, because there was something not quite fully human about her features.

She walked soundlessly across the clearing to the stunned group of Arkers, exuding an air of dangerous, untouchably cold power.  

The way that the Prince of Azgeda, fell into step behind her and deferred to her as she walked made it look as though she should have a crown on her head.  

But wasn’t that the nickname he had given her?  

_Princess?_

“Clarke?”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … I would apologize for the cliffhanger, but every writer is lying if they said they feel bad for leaving their readers with one.
> 
> The good news is that the next chapter is almost done, and that means that the update period should not take that long, fingers crossed! I am my own Beta at this junction, so please excuse any errors I might have missed when editing this chapter.
> 
> Next chapter we will see what lead to Roan and Wanheda!Clarke being together, more about what the imminent threat is, and then the reunion with Skaikru and all the heart-wrenching moments that come from that! 
> 
> Small disclaimer from me: I like Gina a lot, I really do - in the one episode of season three that I watched, I think it was realistic for Bellamy to find someone when Clarke was gone - so while I do portray her as continuing to pursue Bellamy even when he is being hesitant (which - guys, girls, and my nonbinary friends - is not what you should do) please do not give her too much hate, I promise she means well and is not a bad character in my fic. 
> 
> Thank you all so, so much for reading and commenting on my work. I love reading all your comments so much, they make my day and remind me all the time how much I love to write. 
> 
> Please keep the feedback coming! Let me know what you want/hope/predict seeing in the future of this fic! I am always curious to see if people are picking up on some of the hints and foreshadowing I am dropping here and there, and if a bunch of you want to see something, I will try and work it into my greater plan!
> 
> Keep on commenting, and I’ll see you guys with the next chapter, hopefully very soon!


	5. v.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Warnings** : Descriptions of Injuries, Deaths, and Fight Scenes

_**"I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell.** _  
_**I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth.** _  
_**I would know him in death, at the end of the world.** _  
_**He is half of my soul, as the poets say."** _

_\- Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles_

  
*** * * * * * * * * ***

 

_**End of Chapter Two:** _

_“No,” she solemnly declared, “Clarke Griffin is dead. I am Wanheda now.”_

.

.

.

Whereas it had taken them weeks to hike to the ocean, it took mere moments for them to travel through the shadows to the clearing she had awoken in.

Thanatos had led her through the trees, looking down at her with a sort of paternal sadness and joy.

“Your mission is to help the Skaikru. They were your people first. Abigail Griffin, Marcus Kane, and Bellamy Blake are the main leaders.”

_Bellamy Blake -_

_Abby Griffin -_

She pushed the recently resurfaced memories - already fading a bit in intensity and clarity - from her mind and focused on his words.

“What else?”

Thanatos stopped and turned to face her. When she looked beyond him, she could see that they were on the edges of a great field, stretching forward to the horizon as far as she could see.

“There is a great threat rising, with Azgeda aligning themselves against the Coalition. To what end, I do not know. There is something…more sinister at work, something I do not yet know enough about.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“But you have your suspicions.”

Thanatos sighed, looking extremely weary for a long moment before he pushed the emotion away.

“Yes, I do have my suspicions. As soon as I know, I will let you know, I give you my word.”

“So I am merely to warn and defend Skaikru?”

“For now,” he instructed, turning to point to the horizon. “They are several days hike in that direction. They are now occupying the land between Azgeda and Trikru, so they are the ones that would be in danger first.”

She felt a jolt of anticipation, like static right before a lightning strike.

This was no longer training. This was a mission.

She was both excited and apprehensive.

“Be wary, Wanheda, for many of Azgeda search for you. There are rumors, legends, told around the campfire of wanhedas and the power they possess. As soon as they know you exist, there will be many hunting for you.”

She rested her hands on the hilts of her daggers, strapped snug against her thighs. They were a comforting weight, a reassurance. Her muscles remembered the endless hours of training, and she knew her strength outmatched that of any mortal.

_There is nothing that can kill that which is already dead._

“The element of surprise is going to be the best bet you have. Let the rumors spread that you exist, but not your name or your face.”

She nodded her understanding.

“The exiled Prince Roan of Azgeda seeks you out even now, the faintest whispers of your existence motivating him to find you.”

“Do I need to eliminate him?”

“No, he could be an asset if you can convince him to ally with you. He holds no love for his mother, and he would be a kinder, wiser rule than her if can take the throne.”

She made a mental note of that; maybe it would do her well to head to Arkadia slowly, to further raise the chances that Prince Roan will find her.

“I will be around,” Thanatos motioned to the poppy necklace around her neck. “Touch your necklace and call upon me if you are in need of guidance. I am going to search for more information, and we will see each other soon.”

He gently touched her face, cupping her cheek in a paternal gesture.

“Remember your training. You are ready.”

Thanatos pressed a kiss to her forehead, the silky-smooth feeling of his power sliding comfortingly against her skin.

“Godspeed upon your journey, little one.”

.

.

.

In the following hours of solitude, she takes a few minutes to reevaluate everything.

She examined her memories. It was strange, to suddenly have them after being without them for so long.

It didn’t change things.

Of course, she remembered now that her name had been Clarke, that she had loved her people with everything in her. But she did not feel like her anymore, and it was hard to remember so much when it was so hard to remember how emotions felt. In a way, it was like having a reference book in her mind. She knew everything, but she would not be able to remember details unless she examined them for a long time.

She resolved to think of it like a tool, another weapon in her arsenal. She might not recognize everyone from her past at first glance, and she certainly would never be the girl she had been before.

Clarke Griffin was dead.

Let her rest in peace.

Drawing in another deep - and unnecessary - breath, she opened her eyes and started walking in the direction Thanatos had pointed her in, letting her powers reach out like seeking tendrils around her.

She had an exiled prince to find, and a group of Skaikru to protect.

.

.

.

Wanheda walked for two days.

She ended up heading in the opposite direction of Skaikru in order to go deeper in Azgeda territory. The days grew a bit colder, but the summer sun drove away most of the chill by midmorning.

She paused occasionally along her way. When she came across small villages, she would climb the highest tree she could find to scope out their numbers. If she decided they were a large enough settlement, she would wrap herself in the darkness, obscure herself from mortal view, and walk among them.

She heard whispers - rumors - that Lexa, the Commander of the Coalition had betrayed an alliance. That the Skaikru won against the mountain and brought it down despite being abandoned by their allies.

Many did not look favorably upon Lexa. They spat at the ground and growled in their native tongue that she was not fit to rule them anymore, that she was weak.

There were whispers of a _wanheda_ emerging, and she had to smile to herself at the wildly-off-the-mark rumors of who it was and what they would look like. Many people only whispered, spoke about her like a metaphor, but their tones carried with them the deep _belief_ they had in their legends, and the fear that was rising among many of them.

Something was coming. They could feel it in the air.

She detoured more into Azgeda territory, after hearing rumors in a bar that the exiled prince was seen in those woods bordering Azgeda and the new Skaikru land.

Finding Roan was going to take some time; while she would have liked nothing more than to hunt them down relentlessly, to barge into every village and town and announce her presence, she reigned herself in and forced herself to bide her time. In the long run, her secrecy and her stealth - as well as the lack of confirmation of what she looked like - would be a weapon as sharp and deadly as her daggers.

She would get to be where she needed to be soon enough.

.

.

.

Her patience finally paid off almost a week from the time that she and Thanatos had parted way.

She effortlessly shielded herself from sight. Her feet made no noise as she stepped on the crisp leaves or twigs; she was silent as a ghost.

The man she sought was bound, his mouth gagged. Blood covered one side of his face from a gash over his eyebrow, and his eye was swollen and purple. His eyes were full of fury, but his muscles were stone-still, not a hint of tension. Underneath the smeared warpaint and sweat, she could see the stylized scars underneath his eyes.

She cocked her head to the side, examining him as he sat there. The men surrounding him were also covered in white warpaint, their furs and leathers thick and heavy in the heat.

_Azgeda_.

“His mother will pay dearly for his head,” one of them snapped, his hand clenching and unclenching on the sword he held in his hand. His eyes were bloodthirsty, his teeth rotting in his mouth and blackening his sneer.

“Queen Nia would pay more for the honor of killing him herself,” another said, this one with a bow and quiver of arrows thrown over their shoulders.

“Whichever we decide, decide fast,” the third snapped, his eyes scanning the horizon, looking right through her as she approached, “We are too far out in the open right now.”

“I still say we bring him to the Commander,” the fourth and last man exclaimed, where he was lounging against a fallen log, his battle axe in hand as he used a whetstone to sharpen the edge. “She will pay more than Queen Nia will for the honor of killing him. She does have a personal vendetta.”

“And piss off the Queen when she finds out?” The bloodthirsty one hissed.

It was time. She was in the midst of their camp now, standing in front of the prince.

She let her glamour fall off her shoulders like a blanket she shrugged off, and she watched dispassionately as all the men jerked to their feet in surprise, lifting their weapons and yelling.

“You are not to touch him,” she commanded flatly, her arms loose at her sides.

“Who the fuck are you?” The bloodthirsty one bellowed, raising his sword threateningly.

The one lounging on the ground, with an axe, was half on his knees when he got a good look at her; he gasped, his voice shocked and shaken as he simply breathed out, “You’re…you’re the _wanheda_ …”

The other men froze at his words, their grips loosening on their weapons.

All but the bloodthirsty one.

His eyes lit up with greed, and he took a half-step forward.

“A _wanheda_? Well, it seems like this is going to be our lucky day then, lads…think of how much anyone would pay for a _wanheda_.”

She didn’t move, not in the least bit threatened. She raised her eyebrow and said in the same, flat tone, “If you want to die, you can try.”

“Robyn,” the one half-kneeling went, his voice shaking in awe and fear, “ _Don’t_.”

“Shut it, Anton,” Robyn snarled, advancing slowly on Wanheda, “I will let the prince go if you come with us, little lady.”

“Or, you can walk away now with your lives, and I will take the Prince.” She countered.

“I don’t think so,” Robyn snapped.

“Robyn, are you fucking _stupid_?!” Anton snapped.

Robyn didn’t respond. Instead, he quickly attacked.

In a blur of untraceable movement, both of her daggers were in her hands, crossed over her head, stopping Robyn’s sword thrust in midair with a clang. Her arms did not tremble. He could have been pushing against stone for all the good it did him.

He stood there in shock for a long moment, before she tilted her head and examined his soul.

Blackened, torn at the edges, a man who had killed and enjoyed it. The bitter tang of a man who had long-since given himself over to the enjoyment of torture. And the unmistakable blood-red stain of a rapist, so layered and dark that the crimson was almost black.

Without heistating, she broke his sword with both daggers, and when he tumbled forward with the momentum of his own swing, she turned and ducked under his arms, until she was behind him. A swift kick to the back of his knees had him kneeling in the dirt, facing Roan. She crossed her daggers at his neck, and in the space of one inhale and exhale, she sliced through the skin and meat of his neck with little resistance.

He collapsed onto the ground, blood pouring out of the wound that nearly decapitated him, his quiet gurgles and twitches disappearing in seconds as he died. His blood soaked into the earth quickly, staining the grass and the dirt a dark crimson, the same color as the rubies at her neck.

The other three men stared at her in shock, but it was Anton who shot to his feet with both hands up, his axe now tucked into its sheath on his back.

“He is yours, Wanheda,” he said deferentially, slowly backing up away from her. The others fell in behind him, their expressions full of fear and shock.

“Go.” She commanded simply, and watched as they all turned tail and sprinted away.

She could have killed them. It would not have taken much effort on her part.

But their deaths would be needless; they did not carry the same stain as Robyn had, and they would not have fought her willingly.

Let them continue to spread the word of her existence. She would face little resistance that way if the people of all the clans knew for certain that there was a Wanheda walking the world again.

She turned to look at the prince, who was still bound and gagged behind her. He did not struggle, but his eyes were wide and his breathing was a bit labored as he stared up at her. While there was a faint trace of fear in the air, she could sense his overwhelming confusion and shock.

She stepped over the dead body of Robyn and looked down at the prince.

His soul was darkened with his own kills, but portions of lightness remained. No stain of a torturer, or of a rapist. Not a pious man, not a bad man, merely one painted in shades of gray, as most were on this Earth.

“Peace, Prince Roan,” she commanded as she used her daggers to slice through the ropes binding his arms and legs. Even as the pieces drifted to the ground, he did not move an inch, not even to take the gag out of his mouth.

So she knelt down and pulled it off for him, all the while aware of his intense gaze on her face. He shivered when the tips of her fingers brushed against his skin, the coolness of her body unnatural.

“I am not here to kill you,” she reassured, before she stood straight and tucked her daggers into their sheaths, uncaring of the blood that still coated them.

“Then what use do you have of me, Wanheda?” He asked in a strong, but respectful voice.

“You are going to help me, Prince Roan,” she commanded, “Because there is a war coming, and your mother is at the helm of it. And if my intuition about you is correct, your gray soul is what Azgeda will need to lead it when she is no longer a threat.”

Roan just stares at her for a long moment, incredulous, but then something flickered in the back of his eyes.

It looked like _hope_.

“What do we do first?”

A slow smile spread across blood-red lips.

“We find the Skaikru.”

.

.

.

Roan fell into step besides her like he has always been there.

He is a huge man. More than a full head taller than her, at least double her width, every inch of him lined with muscle that his tough life demanded. The scars on his face make his features look more stern, dangerous; she can imagine how much more terrifying he would look if he were in full warpaint.

They move throughout the day quickly, and Roan takes them through shortcuts to the Skaikru camp.

He does not ask many questions. Really, he does not speak much at all, at least until they make camp when the sun starts to set.

She can go on throughout the night; she does not need sleep, food, water, or any kind of breaks humans require. She can consume food, of course, but she does not need it.

Still, she knows that Roan does not have those abilities, so when he pauses to capture a few rabbits for dinner, she merely waits at the campsite.

She is sitting with her back to a tree, her legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle when he comes back.

Roan merely raises one of his captured rabbits in her direction in a silent question.

She shakes her head.

“I do not need to eat like you do,” she offers as a verbal answer.

Roan looks curious, but he does not say anything. Instead, he just goes about the motions of dressing his captured dinner, each motion well-practiced and almost second-nature.

He peers over at her through the corner of his eyes, and she feels something that feels like amusement rise up in her chest.

“Speak your questions, Roan of Azgeda,” she pronounces the fourth time she catches him staring at her. She turns her head so she is meeting his eyes directly, “We are to work together. I do not want you in fear of any of my reactions.”

His mouth tightens, from being caught staring or by the implication that she scares him, but he speaks anyway.

“Who were you, before you were a Wanheda?”

“Do you know the truths of the Wanheda myths?” She asked in return.

“Yes,” he nods, skewering the meat and putting over the fire carefully, “They tell it to us in training. Someone who has killed, and when they die, they are brought back by Death himself to be one of his commanders. They are powerful, and many seek to kill them to absorb the power.”

“Close,” she admits, but does not elaborate, “I carry the memories of who I was before my death, of my life before I was a wanheda, I am not truly the girl I was before. It is like a caterpillar and their transformation into a butterfly. One comes from the other, but the metamorphosis is fundamentally changing.”

“What is your mission, then? Why do we need to go to Skaikru if we are to defeat my mother?”

"Death has sent me on this mission, to stop the loss of life that your mother will bring. War is coming, and they need to be warned.”

“Why would Death want to stop more death?” Roan asked, genuinely puzzled, “When it makes him stronger?”

Wanheda tilts her head to the side, and Roan is momentarily distracted as her hair spills down her front, the fire reflecting in her golden hair. For all she looks deadly, and more than a bit inhuman, she is still beautiful; like a wolf, curled up and waiting to pounce, the elegance and danger mixing seamlessly.

“There must always be a balance, Prince Roan,” she explains, trying to think of the words to convey to him how Death fights for Life as well, “Life and Death are older than us, older than this planet, and will endure far beyond our own comprehension. It is not about strength. It is about enduring. It is about balance.”

“And what my mother is about to do will upset the balance.”

“Yes. So, now we intervene.”

Roan slowly twists the spit the rabbit meat is skewered on over the fire, watching it with a critical eye to make sure it does not burn. He is silently mulling over her words, trying to calm his racing mind.

When he was a child in training, they would tell him stories of a _wanheda_.

Of a bloodthirsty, yet controlled, warrior. Someone who would cut you down just as easily as they would protect you. A person who was chosen for a greater mission, someone who was strong and powerful on the souls and strength of all those that they had killed. A single person that was more powerful than a slew of soldiers.

He had always been in awe at the idea of a _wanheda_.

Now, sitting next to one in a campsite after seeing how effortlessly she had killed a man nearly twice her size, he was wondering if maybe the myths and the legends were actually underestimating their power.

And Roan did not know whether to be afraid or not.

.

.

.

That night, as Roan slept restlessly across the campfire from her, Wanheda feels a shift in the air behind her.

“Have you found what you were looking for?”

She does not turn her head to look at Thanatos, but she can feel him sit next to her, his large body soundlessly graceful.

“Yes.”

She turned to look at his grim face.

“I take it that what you found does not bode well for us.”

Thanatos’ lips twitched slightly.

“That is an understatement, little one.”

His eyes cut across the fireplace, to where Roan was still sleeping.

“I see you have also found who you were looking for.”

“Yes. Take care, for I do not know how he would react to seeing you.”

Thanatos rolled his eyes lightly.

“Do not worry, little one. He will not awaken while I am here, I can assure you.”

"What did you find?"

Wanheda was alarmed at how quickly his face darkened, his eyes flashing red. His power started to crack and pop in the air around them like static electricity.

For all that he had pushed her harder and harder and even in the moments when he had been borderline cruel to her, she had never seen this side of him.

_This_ , she thought idly to herself, _this is what people imagine when they think of an avenging god_.

"The Queen of Azgeda, Nia...she has allied herself with a power that I thought would never again be able to return to this earth."

His fist clenched unconsciously against his thigh, every line of muscle and tendons thrown into sharp relief against his smooth skin.

"Echidna, who was known as the mother of all monsters. She and her husband, Typhon, the father of all monsters, were the ones who birthed most of the the creatures you hear about in myths. They somehow managed to escape Tartarus, where their souls were banished, and reform. They are coming to take back the world and make it their own now that the gods are gone."

"And they are using Azgeda as their soldiers."

"Yes. And I fear that they might be able to bring some of their children back as well. The longer they walk the earth, the more people who see them and believe in the myths, the stronger they become. And with the more of their children they bring back, the more deadly their forces grow. And no mortal will be able to kill her spawn."

“They are coming for the Coalition.”

‘Yes. And Skaikru is their first target.”

Her eyes cut to her sleeping ally.

"He will be a good king to his people. It is why his mother exiled him, because she knew he was a true threat to his power. For all that Azgeda values fighting and strength, they value loyalty as well. He would lead them much better than his mother does, and she knows they would favor him above her."

"I will protect him," she promised.

Thanatos smiled, his teeth bright in the dim light.

"Let him protect you as well.”

He got to his feet, as soundlessly as he had come into the clearing.

“I must go continue to scout. I will also see if I can somehow put up barriers to keep Echidna’s children from coming back to this earth. I doubt that my power alone will be able to do so, but I can try to buy us all the time that we can. Stay strong, little one. I will find you with Skaikru next.”

And just like that, he was gone as easily as he had come.

.

.

.

As they journeyed, she could tell that Roan was wary of her.

She did not blame him in the slightest; he had lived a hard life in exile. His wariness combined with his sharp mind and battle skills were probably what kept him alive.

It did not grate on her that he did not trust her, but she did worry that his needless anxiety would wear him down, would split his attention from other imminent threats.

His wariness became even more prominent when they were about a quarter of a way to Skaikru territory.

And they were being followed.

She could feel the soul - just one - swirling in the distance like a tiny fire, sending ash and soot up to the sky.

Too far away to be seen, but close enough to be sensed.

Roan knew they were being followed as well; he felt it like an instinct, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up straight and every survival instinct within him screaming at him to be on his guard.

She said nothing, for she wanted to see how he would react.

Roan had never slept peacefully, but it got worse.

He started rising in the night periodically, even though she told him time and time again that she could keep the watch because she needed no sleep. His eyes would open at the slightest noise, the snap of a twig, the rustle of an animal in the trees, even just her throwing another log onto the fire.

He meticulously sharpened his daggers, knives, and sword each night, the repetitive motion of running a whetstone against the edge relaxing him marginally.

He kept her in front of him. Whether because he was wary about her being at his back, or in some misguided sense of protection, she did not know.

Whenever they came upon a village, they would skirt around the edges, careful not to be seen.

She knew there was a bounty on his head - had heard it when she had freed him, and had heard the murmurs in the villages she had walked through while hidden from sight.

A bounty offered by his mother for his capture and return. A bounty offered by Commander Lexa of the Coalition, for his head, a greater one for him alive so she could kill him herself.

Wanheda wondered who this bounty hunter was going to try and bring Roan too.

Not that it mattered.

She will stop them like she had stopped the others.

She will stop them like she will stop _any_ others.

.

.

.

“We are being followed,” Roan announced one morning, breaking the silence for the first time since he had awoken.

“I know.”

“Probably just one, maybe - _what_?”

Roan’s head snapped around to look at her, incredulous and angry.

Her expression was annoyingly serene when she turned to meet his gaze.

“You knew?”

“Of course I did,” she raised a single eyebrow at him.

Roan gaped at her for a long moment, opening and closing his mouth several times as he cycled through several emotions rapidly.

Finally, he settled on irritation, clenching his teeth tightly for a moment before he bit out, “Were you going to tell me?"

“There was no need.”

“No _need_?!”

“You knew we were being followed as well. And even if you did not, I would handle it.”

Roan glared at her for a long moment, but did not say anything more.

It would not be the last of the issue.

.

.

.

Roan let the small distance he had kept when walking behind Wanheda grow a bit larger that afternoon.

He tried to keep his own anger low, but he had a feeling that Wanheda could tell exactly what he was feeling. There was a way that she looked at him, like she was looking _into_ his soul, that was unsettling and almost uncomfortable. He knew that there was probably nothing he could hide from her, and that was _terrifying_.

What made it worse was that he could not read her at all.

She was small, her diminutive stature deceptive; she might look unthreatening, but he had seen some of her strength the night that she had liberated him from the bounty hunters that had been after him. If that was even a fracture of her full powers, there was little doubt in his mind that she could cut him down before he could even get a weapon out to defend himself.

And therein lay the crux of the matter.

_What did she want him for?_

She claimed they were allies, but he didn’t know anything except that they were going to be facing an enemy his mother had aligned herself with.

She claimed they were allies, but she did not tell him of any impending threats.

She claimed they were allies, but all the legends of the wanheda that he had ever heard claimed that they were solitary.

So what did she want him for?

There was a niggling thought that kept surging to the forefront of his mind, one that seemed the most plausible.

That she was merely keeping him until he fulfilled some sort of purpose - leading him on with some vague promises about his future as the ruler of Azgeda over his mother - before she executed him.

With how bloody his hands were, with all the horrible things he had done in his life - whether he regretted them or not - he would be surprised if any agent of Death would ever deem him worthy of life.

And still, he followed her.

.

.

.

Wanheda waited.

She could sense the negativity, the anger and confusion and frustration that was building in Roan’s soul like an eruption. She knew that her purposefully vague answers to his questions, as well as the revelation that she knew they were being followed and did not say anything to him, were kindling that would light the explosion.

And she waited.

There was nothing that she could tell to him that would soothe his soul, nothing that she could tell him to make him believe that she truly wanted him as an ally.

Actions would have to speak louder for him.

And he would have to come to the realizations himself.

.

.

.

It did not take long.

Two nights later, Roan finally shot to his feet from the other side of the campfire they had made that night.

She remained sitting on the log she had been perched upon for hours. All she did was lift her eyes.

“Were you ever going to tell me that we were being followed?”

Keeping the exasperation out of her voice, she merely said, “I told you before, Roan, that there was no need. I would have handled it.”

“Don’t you think that it would be important for you ally to know of a threat? Or even what the hell we are doing?”

“Yes, it would be important for my ally to know of a threat, but this singular bounty hunter is not a threat. As for what we are doing, we are going to warn the Skaikru, as I have told you.”

“What are we warning them of? Who has my mother aligned with? What threat is coming? How the hell am I even supposed to help you?”

His frustration spilled out with each word, making his movements jerky.

“It will all be revealed in time, Roan. I assure you, that you have a very important role to play, and as soon as you need to know, you will know.”

His expression soured even more.

“This does not sound like an alliance, Wanheda. This sounds like a lamb to a slaughter.”

She kept her voice level.

“I have never lied to you, Roan.”

“Lies by omission are still lies, Wanheda.”

She rose gracefully to her feet, arms loose at her sides.

Roan took an immediate half-step back, his hand falling to his weapon at his waist. He eyed her warily, distrust clear even if she could not see it in his soul.

“If there is no trust, there is no alliance,” she whispered softly, knowing with a bone-deep certainty where this conversation was going to end.

“There was clearly never a trust to begin with,” he shot back.

“Well then, Prince Roan,” she inclined her head, “I wish you all the luck then in your future. Stay safe. May we meet again.”

And she turned and walked out of the clearing into the trees.

Roan did not say a single word as he watched her go.

.

.

.

She did not leave.

Instead, she cloaked herself from mortal view and stayed on the outskirts of the camp.

Roan did not sleep that night, obviously distrusting that she actually left.

At every sound, whether an animal rustling in the distance or wind through the branches of the trees, Roan tightened his grip on his weapon, razor sharp gaze darting around.

His fear that she was going to come back and execute him was clear, and she tried not to let it stick to her.

She knew that his fear ran deeper than even he knew. She knew that it was not a thing she could overcome from the sheer fact that she was a wanheda and was telling him the truth.

This was something that would need to be proven to him.

And when the first light of the sun touched the woods around them, when Roan dismantled camp and headed off in a completely different direction of Skaikru territory, she followed silently, invisibly, each step of the way.

.

.

.

The woman who was following - _hunting_ \- Roan was clever.

Wanheda watched as Roan gathered water, setting it down with other supplies as soon as he made his own camp the next night. As soon as Roan left to hunt for food, she darted into his camp on light feet, carefully emptying a small packet of white powder into his canteen.

She swirled the water so the powder completely dissolved, re-capped it, and left it in the exact same spot she had found.

She was in and out of campsite in a matter of minutes.

Wanheda walked slowly into the camp, still shrouded from mortal sight. She laid a single hand on the top of the canteen, her powers focused.

It was not a poison. It was a crushed up herb that she knew to cause extreme drowsiness and deep sleep.

Her eyebrows shot up even as she stood and left the campsite.

_Clever girl_ , she thought to herself as she settled in on the outskirts of Roan’s camp to watch how this all played out.

.

.

.

That night, Roan didn’t suspect a thing.

He came back to his camp with a skinned squirrel, and went through the familiar motions of cooking his dinner.

He drank the entire canteen of water without a single hesitation.

Wanheda rolled her eyes.

She was never going to let him live this down.

.

.

.

Roan fought the effects of the drug for a long time, long enough for her to wonder if he would even be impacted by them. He was a large man, it would take a decent amount of it to actually knock him out.

But, even with his normal paranoia making him hyperaware of every noise in the woods, he did fall asleep. And even when the wood in the fire popped, or an owl hooted, he still stayed asleep.

About an hour after he fell asleep, the woman slowly slid down from a tree a good hundred meters away from the edge of camp. Her footsteps were almost soundless as she crossed over to Roan, one hand holding a dagger and the other holding a length of rope.

She paused, on the balls of her feet, directly behind him, for several long moments.

When she finally moved, Wanheda had to admit she was impressed.

With a quick shove, she had Roan on his stomach, hand on the back of his head to slam his forehead into the hard ground even as she lassoed the length of rope around his neck.

Roan’s eyes flew open and he yelped a startled curse, immediately moving to buck off the bounty hunter.

But she had been prepared for that.

A knee in his lower back, and a quick yank of the ends of the rope, and she had him in a stranglehold.

“Ahh, Prince Roan, it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance,” the woman mocked.

Roan _snarled_ , his fingers furiously scrambling to try and pry the rope away from his neck to _breathe_ -

“Your mother sends her kind regards,” she continued to mock, “But I imagine her regard will be _much higher_ ,” she tightened the rope even more, smirk widening even as he choked, “when I deliver her your _head_.”

“I wonder where your little friend went. Abandon you, like everyone else?”

His face was bright red, his lips turning the slightest bit blue from the oxygen deprivation.

Well.

That was enough of that.

She couldn’t have this nameless woman permanently damaging her ally, could she?

“All alone in the woods, about to die, and who is there to hear you scream? Who is there to care about you?”

“Me.”

The woman flinched in shock.

Wanheda let herself be seen, appearing with minimal fuss on the edge of the campsite.

Without a word, she grabbed her daggers and held them in each hand. With a quick gesture, she brought both up and transformed them into a crossbow, which she leveled at the woman easily.

Roan looked up at her in shock as well; clearly, he had thought she had forsaken him.

_Foolish of him._

He would learn with time.

“Let him go,” Wanheda commanded, sighting the woman through the crosshairs.

The woman’s eyes flickered back and forth between them, clearly trying to weigh her odds.

They were not good.

“I am giving you the one chance to leave this clearing with your life,” Wanheda cautioned, clearly seeing the woman trying to figure out a way out of this with her bounty.

The woman’s face twisted into a sneer, even as fear filled her eyes.

“Do you really wish to challenge a _wanheda_?” She taunted lightly, stalking closer.

The dying fire cast her face in shadows, made her features stand out sharper in the night. She knew that she looked otherworldly, dangerous.

The woman’s hand trembled slightly where it was still gripping her dagger.

Wanheda had to admire her courage.

“I have no quarrel with you,” the woman hedged.

“Then let my ally go, and you shall have no quarrel.”

Even as the words left her mouth, she knew that it would do no good.

There was resolution, hard and immoveable like stone, in the woman’s expression and throughout her soul. Nothing Wanheda would have said - no threat, no danger - that would have changed the woman’s mind.

She felt a momentary pang of regret - a life that was to be wasted, a soul lost because of the folly of human pride - but she did not hesitate when the woman lunged at her.

Wanheda released the crossbow arrow.

There was no room for hesitation in this life, not if you wanted to live.

Not if you wanted to _protect_.

Wanheda watched blankly as the woman crumpled to the ground in front of her, gasping soundlessly as blood bubbled up out of the hole of her throat around the shaft of the arrow.

“I warned you. You should never have touched my ally.”

.

.

.

“You came back.”

“I actually never left.”

She did not turn to look at him, instead kept her gaze straight forward as they walked. In the periphery of her vision, she could still see Roan’s expression.

He was looking at her with a confused mix of emotions; the energy swirling off of him gave her more insight into his thoughts than anything else.

“You could have left me to die back there.”

“I could have done a lot of things.”

Roan’s frustration was rising; even if she could not see his stiffening posture, she would be able to tell just from the cadence of his voice.

“Respectfully, Wanheda,” even with his voice tightening with irritation, he still kept his words respectful, “That is not what I am trying to get at.”

“Then say what you mean instead,” she shot back.

Even after these days of traveling, there was still something that he was holding himself back from with her. Whether it was him accepting her as an ally, or him letting go of that fear of her coming for his soul, or anything like that, she needed him to get over that hurdle and start to see her as an ally, as someone in his corner.

Maybe she was taking too closely to heart what Thanatos has done to her too, and was mimicking him, but she was hoping that by pushing him just a little bit too far, it would be the catalyst for the growth that she wanted.

“What is it that you really need me for?” He bit out.

Wanheda finally stopped and turned to look fully at him. Her eyes fell to the red welt around his throat, which was sure to turn blue and purple with bruises as time went on.

Roan met her gaze calmly, but she could see the conflict that raged behind his eyes, deep within his soul.

“That is not what you really want to ask me, Prince Roan,” she replied, her voice almost soft.

His eyes shuttered, jaw clenching.

“I want to know when I am going to outlive my usefulness, Wanheda,” sarcasm was deep in his inflection, but there was truth to his words.

“That is not it either, not fully,” she cocked her head.

“What is it that you think I am trying to ask?” Roan finally snapped, his expression twisted in frustration.

“You want to ask me when I am going to look at your soul and deem you unworthy. I think you want to ask when I am going end our alliance. I think you are wondering when I am going to decide to eliminate you for the greater good.”

Roan flinched minutely, remaining silent, neither agreeing or denying what she said.

For a long moment, she just looked at him, examined the now-familiar patterns and swirls of his soul.

“You are waiting for something that will not happen.”

HIs eyes snapped to hers, incredulous and a little angry, disbelieving.

“You are waiting for a dagger to the back that will never be unsheathed. You are bracing for a blow that will never fall upon you.”

Something in her chest ached a bit at the distrust in his face. She did not want her ally to be worried of a betrayal. She had honor, she represented something larger than herself, and it would be a betrayal to Thanos and everything she believed in if she lied and manipulated an ally the way he thinks she would.

“I will not ask you to trust me, for trust not freely given is now trust at all. But trust in yourself, in the fact that you can choose your own path, and that you have the cavity to walk a good one. And I believe you can.”

.

.

.

The change was subtle.

Nothing significant, and had she not been in tune with him and his emotions the way she was, she might never have noticed.

It was in the way that he no longer watched her every movement like a hawk.

How, when’s he drew her dagger to cut through some brush, he did not flinch.

How he slept a little deeper - still awakening with every significant sound - but not from her moving around the camp.

When she told him everything that Thanatos had told her about Echidna, about the threat they were going to face, he merely nodded, but she could tell that her trust in him warmed his soul.

It was not complete trust, not by a long shot.

But it was something.

.

.

.

As his confidence in her as an ally grew, she started to see more of Roan’s personality come through here and there.

He had a very dry, sarcastic sense of humor, a quick wit that could dole out quips with minimal effort.

Along with that quick wit was a mind that was as sharp as the edge of her blade; in the few times that she had convinced him to spar with her, she had seen his calculating looks even as he fought against her, his mind several steps ahead and planning even if he had no hope of actually beating her.

Roan was talented with every weapon she had seen him handle, and was well-versed in the skills needed to survive. He walked through the woods and across the wide open plains with an air of serenity, one that came from a well-travelled life where he was comfortable in many environments.

He could be playful, a prankster.

When they came to a lake at one point, she had been kneeling next to the water, just letting the coolness of it smooth over her hands.

She could feel him behind her, could feel his excitement pulse slightly, before he was silently sneaking up behind her, hands outstretched.

She kept her smile hidden.

As he slammed his hands on her shoulders to try and shove her into the water, she reached up and grabbed the fabric by his shoulders, and the leather straps that held his sword to his back.

With a single yank, he was sailing over her head into he water with a shout of surprise, making a giant splash as he hit the water and sunk underneath the surface, before resurfacing, spluttering and shaking water out of his face.

For a long moment, they stood there staring at each other - Roan dripping wet - before she tossed her head back and laughed.

It was the first time that he had ever heard her laugh like that - light and airy, like the young girl she looked like instead of the legend she actually was.

And he had laughed as well, shaking his head, before he pointed at her, still in his dripping wet furs.

“I will get you one of these days.”

“Sure you will,” she conceded.

Even his soul itself became comforting and familiar to her, a presence that she could feel like a well-worn cloak around her shoulders. Strong, reliable, warm, protective.

Just like the man.

Here and there, when she caught him off guard or was able to study him without his noticing, she could admire the handsome lines of his face, the sharp edges of his scars.

He had a regal air to him, a sense of nobility and honor that was buried underneath layers of cunning and deadly skill.

He would be a fierce King one day.

A King she would be proud to call an ally.

A King that she would fight to see on the throne.

.

.

.

“Seems as though we are being followed again,” she announced one afternoon, her eyes distant as she turned to look behind them.

“How many?”

“Five. About an hour's distance from us.”

Roan arched an eyebrow.

“Bold of them to be that close.”

“They probably think that you are alone,” Wanheda tilted her head to the side, almost as though she were listening to something.

“What do you sense?”

Wanheda shook her head and turned to him.

“Nothing of importance. We can avoid them easily.”

“We are only a half-day’s hike to Skaikru territory, don’t you think it would be prudent for us to eliminate them as a threat before we get closer?”

Wanheda merely stared at him.

“What do you suggest then?"

“I have a plan.”

He had a cheeky grin on his face, and it transformed his features. For a short moment, she could imagine who he had been before the world had taught him to be hard - young, carefree, humor and trickery that came to him as easy as breathing.

She sighed, already resigning herself to the fact that this was probably not going to go the way she wanted.

“I am not going to like this, am I?”

“Not even a little bit, but it’s going to be fun.”

.

.

.

The fight was uneven, but had he actually been trying, Roan could have taken them all down.

It took a little bit of finesse to make it look like they actually overtook him, but it worked.

Adrenaline roared in his ears, and he had to keep himself from laughing.

Panting heavily from the exertion, he kept his face grim as the bounty hunter tied his hands behind his back with a length of rough rope, taking his weapons off of him and keeping a blade pressed tightly to his throat.

“Is everything alright here?”

An unfamiliar man appeared at the edge of the clearing, dressed in clothing unlike anything Roan had seen before.

_Skaikru_.

The man with the scars in the shape of lightning bolts stepped forward, his face twisted in disgust.

“We are under commands of our Queen. We are looking for the _wanheda_ , but we found an exiled traitor as well. We are dispensing Azgeda justice. You have no authority here, Skaikru,” he sneered.

“You are very close to our border,” the other man shot back in a stern voice, but his face expressionless, “We have every right to ask what you are doing. We are not looking to interfere.”

“Good,” the Azgeda man turned and spat to the side, his tone derisive. “Then continue on your way.”

“A word of advice to you, _Skaikru_ ,” the one holding his hair and the blade to his throat, “You would do well to not ally yourself with traitors.”

“We are not his allies,” the young man with curly dark hair and a tight grip on a metal weapon spat back.

He couldn’t help himself.

Roan threw back his head and _laughed_.

The other Azgeda men in the clearing looked at him curiously, clearly thinking that the prince had lost his mind.

Still chuckling, Roan turned to the leader, met his gaze without a trace of fear. He was sure he looked a mess, his face covered in his own blood, but he almost felt giddy at the thought of the surprise that was awaiting these men.

“Oh, you have _no idea_ who my allies are.”

He looked over the bounty hunter’s shoulder.

A flash of gold and black darted into the clearing.

Roan settled back in his heels, making himself comfortable to watch the show.

Everyone else in the clearing turned just in time to see a blur of motion.

And then the bodies started to fall.

.

.

.

Roan doubted the awe he felt at watching Wanheda fight would ever fade.

It was a beautiful dance, the daggers in her hands merely an extension.

_She_ was the real weapon.

She moved without hesitation, silent as the grave and as deadly as a striking snake.

A split second after everyone had turned, the tallest bounty hunter was crumpling to the ground, blood spraying out of his slit throat.

Before his body even hit the ground, another was falling with a stab to the heart.

The others were yelling to each other, trying to figure out who - or what - was attacking them, but it was futile.

She paused for a long second, long enough for Roan to make out her expression - grim, but a light of _something_ , be it passion or excitement to fight in her eyes - before she was blocking a blow from an axe the could have split her in half.

The other two rushed her, but she batted away their blows as if they were mere annoyances.

One lunged, a knife in his hand, aiming to slash at her front.

She kicked, knocking his knife out of his hand and breaking his wrist all in one motion. He bellowed in pain, but another kick caught him in his jaw, the force great enough that his neck broke, his head snapping to the side in a sickening angle.

Roan grinned.

The last two lunged at her, desperation making their motions wild.

The last mistake they would ever make.

Wanheda ducked a slash aimed at her back, springing back up and stabbing her dagger straight through the bottom of the man’s skull, the scrape of metal against bone echoing through the clearing.

The last bounty hunter was panting, staring at her in horror.

He had clearly realized that this was not a fight he would be able to win.

He made one wild move with his ax. He swung with all his might at her side, bellowing with rage and fear.

Wanheda stepped into his space and grabbed the ax just underneath the head and wrenched it out of his grip. His body curved with the force of the yank, right onto her blade.

His yell of pain trailed off to a gurgle as she yanked the blade out of his stomach and stabbed him in the chest to make sure he was dead, before letting his body and ax fall to the ground.

She sheathed her dagger and stood with her hands on her hips, back to the newcomers at the edge of the clearing, clearly dismissing them as a threat even as a few of them gripped their weapons tighter, eyeing her warily.

Roan looked up at her and gloated lightly, “I told you it would work.”

She arched a single blond eyebrow at him incredulously.

“You got injured.”

“Still got rid of them.”

“We didn’t even need to face them.”

“Where is the fun in that?”

She sighed, dropping her head forward in exasperation.

Still, she took a dagger from her thigh and came around to slice through the rope that bound his wrists, stepping back to give him room to rise to his feet.

As he twisted and rubbed feeling back into his hands, she grabbed his weapons from the pile they had been throw into, handing them back with ease.

“Put yourself together quickly. We still have an audience.”

Quickly, he sheathed all his weapons in their hidden holsters, turning in time to fall into place easily to her side as she turned to look at the Skaikru who were still just watching their interactions.

Roan turned just in time to see the expression that crossed the young, angry man’s face - saw his jaw fall and his lips form a name - voice achingly grieved, shocked and _distraught_ -

“Clarke?"

.

.

.

_She was dressed in all black, tight pants tucked into boots and a shirt underneath a jacket. All pristine, none of them looking like they were made from scraps of fabric or furs. They looked…like someone had taken darkness and woven it into fabric, making it ripple and twist while still being still._

_Blond hair, now more pure gold than the light blond it had been, loose in curls down to just below her shoulders. Her features were sharpened, the bones in her face just barely thrown into too-sharp relief, and her skin was alabaster white, so pale it looked as though she had been drained of all her blood. Her lips looked almost too red on her face, and her eyes were like two brilliant sapphires. She was beautiful, but otherworldly; looking at her, it was clear she was not quite fully human._

_At her waist were two daggers, each strapped to her thigh. She walked soundlessly, exuding an air of untouchable, cold power. The way that the Prince of Azgeda, Roan, deferred to her as she walked made it look as though she should have a crown on her head._

_But wasn’t that the nickname he had given her? Princess?_

“Clarke?”

He didn’t recognize his voice.

It was shocked, brittle, like thin ice, threatening to crack and send him into the endless cold water, a drowning death in the grief that he thought he was finally dragging himself out of.

She did not react to his voice, merely kept walking forward.

She didn’t even _look_ at him -

“Marcus Kane,” she intoned - god, even her voice was different.

Regal, cold, and higher pitched, no longer throaty and warm.

“Clarke?” Marcus breathed, his voice that of a man who was unsure if he was awake or dreaming. His eyes were wide, pupils blown wide with shock, horror, and _confusion_ -

He had carried her back to camp, her body stiff with death, heavy and yet still hollow. He had put her in her mother’s arms, had watched her be buried in the ground.

_How was she here?_

“I am Wanheda,” she inclined her head, “A Commander for Thanatos.”

“The god of death?” Bellamy asked incredulously, his mind still trying to compute how she was _standing in front of him when she had been dead for three months -_

“Yes,” was her simple answer. “I am his Commander. I was sent to warn Marcus Kane, Abigail Griffin, Leaders of Skaikru, Commander Lexa of the Coalition, and Prince Roan of Azgeda.”

She said her mother’s name without a trace of remembrance, and Lexa’s with no anger.

~~She didn’t even mention him -~~

Lincoln cast a concerned look to him, but he didn’t pay his friend any attention.

His vision was tunneled, it seemed like everything - sights, sounds, smells - were coming at him from far away, but the only thing that was clear was _Clarke_ -

The proud line of her shoulders, the easy way she held herself, how she moved and walked -

It was all simultaneously so familiar and so foreign.

The grief in his chest _roared_ , the dragon that seemed to encircle his heart awaking with a vengeance, claws shredding delicate flesh and reopening old wounds. He almost wanted to double over from the force of the pain, his lungs spasming with the effort to try to continue to draw in air.

His eyes watered, and when he blinked them away, he realized he had been staring at her without blinking since he saw her.

He half-expected her to disappear from his vision when he did blink.

What if this was just another vivid dream that his consciousness made up? What if he woke up, back in his own bed in his small cabin in Arkadia, alone? What if he woke up and she was really gone, and this was just another horrific dream that just made him feel as if he was being crushed underneath the weight of the world again?

_He needed to touch her._

It wasn’t a choice -

It was a bone-deep _need_.

As if yanked forward by an invisible cable, he lunged forward, his gun falling from his numb fingers to his side and slammed against his hip hard enough to bruise.

Roan made a move as if to tackle Bellamy away from Clarke, but Bellamy barely registered it.

“Clarke, _please_ -” He begged, his words falling off his tongue heavy with desperation.

He was desperate to touch her, to _hold_ her, to have her gaze directed at him with some goddamn _recognition_ -

In a swift movement that he could not have hoped to track, she had her dagger in hand - the metal a matte black, clearly not a metal he had ever encountered - pressed to his throat without hesitation.

He instinctively froze in place, but every muscle in his body vibrated, twitching with the desperate need to move closer to her.

She could slit his throat open if she wanted, he didn’t care, he would take it gratefully if it meant that he got to hold her one last time before he left this world -

“I am not Clarke,” she snapped, her eyes still cold and not a trace of emotion on her face anymore, “I am telling you to step back, _boy_. I am not here for you.”

She could have stabbed him straight through his stomach and it would have hurt less.

Every word she said, every syllable full of _disgust_...it cut him more than any knife she could ever wield.

He almost welcomed the pain of the blade digging into his skin; he felt off-kilter, like he had been cut loose on a life raft in the middle of a hurricane, buffeted by waves, clinging desperately to slippery fabric in an effort to keep from being throw into the roiling sea. The pain grounded him slightly, made it easier to think through the maelstrom of his thoughts.

“What the _fuck_ are you talking about?! _You’re_ Clarke! None of this is possible, we buried you three months ago! You were _dead_!”

His voice cracked on every few syllable, and he knew that his expression was a study in desperation, but he could not find a single part of him that could feel embarrassed or ashamed in this moment.

Her eyes - the iris a different, deeper shade of blue, but the shape of them so _familiar_ \- examined his face quickly. She cataloged his face, from his hair to his chin and then back up to his eyes. A flash of recognition, and then a bit of sympathy.

She took her dagger away from his neck and tucked it back into the sheath soundly.

“Bellamy?”

His breathing stuttered, and he wouldn’t have been able to hold the tears back for anything in the world. They spilled over, streaking through the dirt and sweat on his face.

He made no move to brush them away.

The inflection of her voice when she said his name was wrong, it was all _wrong_.

There was no familiarity in her voice; she said his name like she had said everyone else’s, like she was reading them off of a list.  
  
No recognition, no emotion, no care, no warmth.

How many nights had he dreamed she was standing before him, saying his name, and now here she was and it was a fucking _nightmare_ -

_But she was still there -_

“Yes, yes, it’s me, princess, I can’t…I can’t believe you’re here, I -“

He reached for her one more time, trying to grab her hand - _small, strong, familiar, nimble fingers that could heal or kill with equal ease_ \- but she dodged his outstretched hand smoothly.

“I am sorry,” she apologized, cutting off his rambles, “But I am not her anymore.”

“What are you talking about?”

Roan stepped forward, almost protectively, like he wanted to step in between Bellamy and Clarke. As if Roan had a _right_ to stand there between her and danger, to protect her from her own people.

As if Clarke needed protecting from _him_ , of all people.

Bellamy tried not to let that affect him, but he could feel himself tensing.

“A _wanheda_ is reborn when someone deemed worthy by the god of Death has died. He will bring them back, train them to fulfill their duties. Not just anyone can be a _wanheda_. They are powerful, the beings of myths and legends. They are more than human, they are more demigods,” Roan explained, almost bragging as he fully slid in-between them, careful to put the majority of his bulk between Clarke and the rest of them.

“I do not remember much of Clarke’s life,” she further explained, “I am not her. Not really. I might wear her face, and hold some of her memories and her soul, but I am not her, not really.”

Her face twisted in sympathy, the first true emotion the he was able to discern.

“Your friend is dead. I am sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with an extra-long chapter for you all! 
> 
> I am constantly blown away by the feedback to this fic, both here and on my [tumblr](https://chase-the--wind.tumblr.com/)! Thank you all so much for sticking with me, and please keep the comments and kudos and everything coming! You have no idea how it motivates me to write. 
> 
> I graduated from college this past week, and it's been surreal for me. I am going on vacation in a few weeks, so I will hopefully have another update up before I leave for that! 
> 
> Please keep commenting, let me know what you think of the long-awaited reunion (more reunions to come in the next chapter!) and also let me know if you want to see anything specific! Also, let me know what you think of the big-bad that I have chosen as the impending threat! 
> 
> Lastly, there is going to be another Greek God/Goddess added into this story soon - in fact, this specific one has scenes with one of my favorite characters that have been written long before I started posting these chapters! I want to hear your theories! 
> 
> P.S. There might be some grammatical errors or spelling mistakes in this chapter, and I will come back and read through to edit them soon! I just wanted to get this chapter out as soon as possible for you all!


	6. vi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Warnings:** Descriptions of Torture

_**No light, no light in your bright blue eyes** _  
_**I never knew daylight could be so violent** _  
_**A revelation in the light of day** _  
_**You can’t choose what stays and what fades away** _

_"No Light, No Light” - Florence + The Machine_

*** * * * * * * * * ***

Bellamy kept his eyes on the horizon, a white-knuckled grip on his gun and his composure.

Whereas Bellamy couldn’t bring himself to look at Clarke - _not Clarke_ , he forcibly remind himself - Marcus couldn’t look away, even though he was driving the rover.

Had Bellamy been in a better mindset he would have insisted on driving the rover himself, since Marcus kept flicking his eyes to the mirror to look back at her and stare for long moments, the rover wavering from its straight line each time.

Lincoln was his normal calm, unflappable self in the back of the rover, but there was shock and awe in his gaze whenever he looked at _her_.

To Lincoln, she was every legend and campfire story from his childhood come to life.

Miller was stoic in the corner of the rover. Still, he kept his hand on his weapon and his eyes trained on Roan, clearly seeing the tall man at the larger threat.

Bellamy didn’t even know what Miller thought of the situation.

 _She_ sat poised and collected in one of the seats, legs neatly crossed and expression blank.

Roan seemed to take up all of the remaining space in the rover with his bulk. Again, he kept himself between her and the rest of the them. His tree-trunk arms were crossed over his chest nonchalantly, legs sprawled out almost to the complete other side of the back, his thigh pressed with familiarity against hers.

The easy way that they interacted and moved in each other’s space made jealousy rise in Bellamy’s throat, bitter and stinging as stomach acid.

It could have been moments, it could have been hours or even days, but when they got within radioing distance of camp, Marcus swallowed heavily and reached out for the receiver.

He held it in a shaking hand for several miles before he finally made the call.

“Kane to Arkadia, do you copy?”

A short pause, then Raven’s voice, slightly staticky, came over the speaker.

_“Reyes at Arkadia, copy.”_

“We are en route back to camp. New developments have arisen.”

Bellamy gave a bitter laugh, but it came out more a strangled sob.

 _New developments_ was a fucking understatement.

_“Copy that. Any concerns?”_

Marcus hesitated.

Abby was going to be _blindsided_ by this.

The scream that she had emitted when she had seen Clarke’s body in his arms still echoed in his nightmares.

“Not immediate, but impending. Bringing back two guests. And Raven?”

_“Yes?”_

“Tell Abby to…”

 _God_ , what do you tell a mother to do when she is about to meet a mythological being that was born from her daughter’s sacrifice?

“Tell Abby to brace herself.”

When Raven’s voice came across the line again, the apprehension was almost palpable.

_“Copy.”_

.

.

.

Abby was waiting outside medbay when the rover appeared outside the gates.

Marcus barely was able to bite out, “Stay in the rover,” to Roan and Clarke - _Wanheda_ \- before he threw himself out the door, shutting it with much more force than was strictly necessary.

Abby felt her own anxiety rise ever higher when she saw the look on his face.

“Marcus, what-“

Before she even got the question out, he was crowded in her space, grabbing onto her upper arms tightly as he kept himself between her and the rover.

“Abby, I…you…I…”

In all their years of knowing each other, Abby had _never_ seen Marcus this off-kilter or this at a loss for words.

“Marcus, calm down. What happened?”

The anguished look he gave her was both confusing and extremely concerning.

“Abby…the myths…they are true. The legends, what Lincoln and Octavia told us about the _wanheda_ …it’s _true_.”

“What?” She breathed, her mind spinning in an attempt to keep up with what was happening.

A scuffle being Marcus had them both turning to look.

Bellamy - with a wild look in his eyes that she hadn’t seen since the first week after the fall of the mountain - was exchanging harsh words with an unfamiliar grounder with facial scars, shoving the man backwards back to the rover he had just climbed out of it. It didn’t seem to matter to Bellamy that this grounder was much larger than him, he got in his face with aggression and zero hesitation.

Miller and Lincoln were trying to stop another person from getting out of the rover, but both of them seemed to hesitate. They were…it seemed as if they were _afraid_ to touch the person.

She saw a small, feminine figure jump out of the far side of the rover, and for a moment, she thought that Lexa was the one coming to camp.

But this girl was too short and curvy to be Lexa, and the flash of yellow-gold hair told her that it definitely was not the commander.

Abby took a half-step around Marcus, brushing off his attempts to stop her, trying to make out distinguishing features of the other person -

_They looked so familiar -_

“Abby-“

The girl broke through the line that Lincoln and Miller made with ease, and headed right for where Abby and Marcus were standing.

Abby could only stare as her brain desperately tried to process exactly what she was seeing.

Exactly _who_ she was seeing.

Dirty blond hair now a deep, burnished gold. Sky-blue eyes now a deep sapphire. Pale skin now a bloodless - _inhuman_ \- white.

Different, but all of it familiar.

It was the face she had cradled between her hands as she prayed the ground was survivable. The face she had watched grow from a tiny newborn to a bright child to a fiery teenager and strong leader.

It was the face she still looked for in a crowd unconsciously, the face she had wept over as she had to bury her in the ground.

Her daughter -

_Her baby -_

“Clarke?”

.

.

.

Wanheda stopped, startled by the _intensity_ of the emotion swirling in the woman’s soul.

_Abby Griffin._

_Leader of the Skaikru. Doctor._

_Clarke Griffin’s mother._

She felt as though she shouldn’t be surprised by the reactions her face garnered - she had _had_ a life before her duty - but she was constantly surprised by the depth and intensity of the true, pure _human_ emotions.

Abby Griffin was standing, stiff, wavering a bit on unsteady legs even as Marcus kept a grip on her arm, concern radiating off him in waves.

“Clarke?” Abby repeated.

Wanheda hesitated, unsure how to react.

The fragile…no, the _shattered_ look on the woman’s face unnerved her.

Shattered people were unpredictable.

She felt the brush of Roan’s soul behind her, his hulking bulk standing firm behind her now that he had pushed passed Bellamy.

She could imagine Roan, arms crossed, glare in place as he stood in silent support - and silent threat - behind her.

Bolstered, Wanheda raised her chin and calmly announced, “I am Wanheda, a Commander for Thanatos, the god of Death. I have been sent to speak to Marcus Kane, Abigail Griffin, as the Leaders of Skaikru, and Commander Lexa of the Coalition. This,” she motioned to the large form behind her, “is my ally, Prince Roan of Azgeda.”

Abby was still _staring_ at her, tears filling her eyes but not spilling over.

Marcus stepped forward, not much more composed but knowing that they had to handle this _now_.

Whispers, exclamations of shock, rippled through the crowd of camp, and he realized belatedly that maybe they should have hidden her better, not let her reveal herself to the entire camp.

"Please, come this way. We will talk inside," Marcus started heading in, pulling Abby with him.

Wanheda merely nodded, and fell into step behind him easily enough, Roan following her as well.

Bellamy hurried to catch up with them - skirting widely around Clarke and Roan - to Marcus and Abby’s side.

Marcus grabbed the young man’s shoulder, whispering harshly, “Go find Raven, David, Octavia, and anyone else you think should be here for this. I have a feeling that this is going to be a mess.”

“Yeah, what was your first fucking clue,” Bellamy bit out, before he spun around and stalked away to hunt down the others for the meeting.

.

.

.

The council room was packed.

Bellamy gathered David, who joined Marcus and Abby at the front of the room. He had staggered to a halt when he saw Clarke standing at the front of the room - Roan still a hulking shadow behind her - his wide eyes snapping over to Abby, who was sitting with her arms crossed tightly and a stone expression on her face.

Raven came whipping into the room next, her brace clicking with her frantic movements. She stopped dead and gasped loudly when she saw Clarke, her face pale as she stared at the girl who used to be her best friend.

Octavia walked in with Lincoln - who had clearly warned her ahead of time - and the only outward sign of her shock was a harsh inhale and a clenched jaw, before she smoothly crossed the room and stood with her back pressed tightly to the wall, hand on her sword hilt.

Miller came in next, Monty and Jasper half-steps behind him. Whereas Jasper's face went blank with shock, Monty’s crumpled in grief. It was only by Miller’s insistent shove that the two ever moved out of the doorway.

Harper came next, no outward sign of her shock, but the way she immediately crossed to Monty’s side and grasped his hand tightly showed how startled and concerned she was.

Bellamy walked in last, and he was the one who shut the door firmly behind him.

All eyes flickered to him, and he gritted his jaw and crossed his arms tightly, muscles so tense he almost seemed to vibrate with repressed tension.

Octavia stared at her brother in concern.

She was _terrified_ that this is what was going to finally break her big brother.

It was Harper that finally broke the silence.

“Clarke…what is happening?”

Clarke turned to look at the assembled group of people in front of her.

“I am not Clarke,” she gently corrected.

Abby flinched, closing her eyes for a long moment to compose herself. Bellamy remained stone cold, his hands gripping his crossed arms tight enough to bruise.

“I am Wanheda. I was born from the sacrifice of your Clarke Griffin. I may look like her, and I may carry some of her memories and her soul, but I am not her. I am sorry.”

She looked genuinely sad for them.

Roan stepped forward in a subtle movement that left him in front of her, shielding her from the gazes of everyone for a short moment.

“A _wanheda_ is a chosen commander of Death, chosen to be his right hand. They are chosen to fulfill a duty, to protect the innocents and keep the balance of life and death.”

“You said that there is a threat coming, that you were sent to warn us. What is it?”

Clarke - no, _Wanheda_ \- turned to look at Marcus.

“The first thing you need to understand is that the myths and legends of this world, and the world before the bombs fell…they are true. The gods used to walk this earth.”

“‘ _Used_ ’ to?”

“Yes. When the bombs fell and most of humanity was wiped out…many Faded. The gods were tied to humanity, and when all of humanity nearly died…well, Thanatos and a few others are the only ones to walk the earth now.”

“What else do we need to know?” David chimed in.

“There is a threat coming,” she started, “and Queen Nia of Azgeda has aligned with them. Echidna has reformed and clawed her way out of Tartarus. She is coming to annihilate everything in her path, to reclaim the earth for her and her children.”

“Echidna?”

“The ‘Mother of Monsters.’”

All eyes turned to Bellamy. He kept his gaze empty as he kept his focus on the far wall.

“Any monster that you hear of in any Greek myth - the Hydra, the chimera, the Nemean lion, even Cerberus - she birthed them. She was described as half-beautiful woman, half-poisonous snake. She was married to Typhon, the father of all monsters.”

Wanheda tilted her head, her brows pulling down slightly in the middle. She stared at Bellamy for a long moment, before slowly nodding.

“He is correct. And the monsters she is bringing back…no mortal can kill them.”

“So we are well and truly fucked then?” Raven bit out.

“No. I am not mortal. I was sent to not only warn you, but to also protect Skaikru. You are the first stop between Azgeda and the rest of the Coalition. After I warn Commander Lexa of the impending threat,” her face twisted slightly at Lexa’s name, but it was smoothed over before anyone could get a read on her, “I will be back to guard your city.”

“Just you?”

Roan chuckled, the harsh, deep sound a shock in the somber room.

“Trust me, she is stronger than she looks.”

Wanheda threw him a look - one part exasperation, one part fondness.

Bellamy’s chest _ached_.

“Thanatos is scouting, but he will update me if there is any change. As of right now, Azgeda is merely biding their time while Echidna gathers her power.”

“What about the other gods that might be roaming this earth? You said that it is only Thanatos and a few others, but where are they? Shouldn’t they be helping?”

Wanheda hesitated for a long moment.

“Thanatos is looking for them, but the only one who is fully formed is Persephone, the goddess of Spring. Life and Death are an endless cycle, they can never truly be gone from this earth as long as life remains on it. Thanatos tried to find Persephone, but he has not seen her in years.”

Silence fell.

“I will be back in a few days,” Wanheda intoned, standing up straight, “I need to pass this warning on to the Commander. Until then, do not send anyone out unless it is an emergency. Stay within the gates.”

“You’re not going to Polis alone,” Lincoln stood up straight, suddenly fierce.

“She is not going to be alone,” Roan interjected, shooting Lincoln a look as if he should have known better.

Bellamy stood up straighter, keeping himself in front of the door.

“No, she is not. Some of us Skaikru are coming with you. You cannot trust Lexa,” Bellamy snapped.

Wanheda’s gaze whipped around to his, suddenly fierce.

“I think if there is anyone that knows how little we can trust Commander Lexa,” she bit out, “it would be me.”

Bellamy flinched as if he had been slapped. Abby jerked backwards, her eyes filling with tears.

Octavia took a half-step forward, half-drawing her sword, furious eyes on Wanheda.

“That is enough,” she snapped, protective sibling instincts making her reckless.

Wanheda met Octavia’s gaze for a long moment, the latter not flinching in her glare.

“If you really wish to accompany me and Roan to Polis, be ready to leave tomorrow at sunrise,” Wanheda commanded, “And no more than five or six. We need to move quickly. The faster we get there, the faster we can return.”

The dismissal clear in her tone, she started across the room, Roan close behind her as always.

Bellamy moved to the side immediately, keeping his gaze on the floor again as she left the room.

He didn’t think he could look at her for any longer without completely falling apart.

And as the room erupted in pandemonium as soon as Wanheda left, Bellamy turned and snuck out the room, heading back to his cabin to pack up a small bag and prepare his weapons.

If they thought that he wasn’t going with Clarke - _Wanheda_ \- to Polis, then they had another thing coming.

.

.

.

“Abby, wait!”

Abby did not turn around even as Marcus called out for her.

She hurried down the hall to the medbay, her teeth gritted and hands in fists by her side as she tried her hardest to keep her composure.

It was no use.

She could feel the tears pressing against the back of her eyes and clogging up her nose, could feel her breaths start to come harsher and harsher, her heart pounding a harsh tempo against her ribs. She knew that she was about five seconds away from falling apart, and she needed to be somewhere closed off and private before she allowed herself to do so.

Marcus did not let up his pace.

He was a half-step behind her by the time she got to the medbay, bursting through the door and heading straight for the small closet in the back she had converted into her office.

As soon as she got into her office, she turned to shut the door and lock it - desperate to be alone.

But Marcus would not let her.

His large hand caught the edge of the door, and without preamble he slipped in after her and let it fall shut.

In the handful of seconds that passed between him shutting the door and turning around to look at Abby, she had crumpled against her desk, hitting the ground hard.

“Abby,” he breathed, his knees hitting the metal ground hard as he dove for her side.

She didn’t let him pull her into his arms, but when he reached for her and grabbed her arms, she slumped forward, her forehead hitting his shoulder and her hands grasping his biceps.

She was panting, her tears all but choking her as she shook.

“She’s…Marcus, she’s…”

In all the years of knowing Abby, he had never, ever seen her this hysterical.

He felt lost; he had no idea how to comfort her.

“Abby, Abby, I need you to look at me, alright? Look at me,” he could feel her gasping pants against his shoulder, felt her trembling where he was trying to prop her up with his arms.

She pulled back enough for him to see her face.

It was like a punch in the gut.

Tears cut harsh tracks down her cheeks, her eyes red and eyelashes clumped together. Her hair was a mess around her face, her cheeks flushed red with an almost feverish intensity.

He had been with her when the missile struck Ton DC, had been trapped in the dirt and soot and rubble with her, had seen her after Jake Griffin had been executed, and every moment in between when things got bad, and he had never, ever seen her so distraught.

Not even when he put Clarke in her arms the first time.

Marcus had never married on the Ark - had always been too tied up with his own political motivations - and had never had children. He had never wanted to, not really.

He knew that he would never be able to understand what it was like to lose a child. Knew that he would never be able to understand the depth of her anguish, her grief, at having the child she had lost come back and look at her without an ounce of recognition.

But he knew Abby. She was one of the strongest people he had ever met, her daughter a close second. She bore a lot on her thin shoulders and never crumbled.

To see her breaking her apart in front of him was akin to seeing a goddess bleed.

It was heart-wrenching and terrifying and disorienting all in one.

“Abby, I am so, so sorry,” he whispered, “But you need to breathe with me. In and out, deep breaths, alright?”

For a long second, she stared at him uncomprehendingly. But then she eventually sucked in breath after breath, slowly gaining a steady, even breathing pattern. Even as her breathing settled, her shaking continued.

They sat in silence for a long time, crumpled against her desk in a tangle of limbs.

“She’s really gone, isn’t she? That…Wanheda might look like her, but Clarke is gone.”

Abby’s voice was as dead as her gaze.

He wanted to say something - _anything_ \- comforting. Wanted to lie to her and tell her that in a few days, Clarke would come back. That Wanheda would remember, that things would become as they had been. That she did not have to relive the loss of her child all over again, while still looking at her daughter’s face.

He couldn’t tell her that.

All he could do was whisper how sorry he was again and again as she crumpled against his shoulder and silently cried.  
.

.

.

“Bellamy.”

He did not turn to look at his sister, instead kept his attention on the spare sets of clothes he was folding into the bottom of his rucksack.

“Bellamy!”

He kept on ignoring her, folding a small pallet of blankets and strapping them to the bottom.

A hand wrapped around his forearm and yanked him around.

“ _What_ , Octavia?”

Octavia did not recoil when he snapped at her.

“Tell me you aren’t packing to go with Wanheda.”

“That would be a lie.”

“Bellamy, this is going to be a mess. Do you understand what this means? Do you understand what her being here means?”

Bellamy just looked at her, and Octavia could have cried at the devastation that was there.

“Bellamy...Wanheda being here, found fo Polis to give a warning about Azgeda and this other threat...it means that there is gonna be a war. There is going to be fighting, and tensions, and there are gonna be people who think they can try and seize her power from her. You’re...you’re gonna be right in the crossfire.”

“Well, who is going to protect her? You heard her, she is going to be the only thing that stands between our people and these monsters we can’t fight. We lose her, and we’re screwed.”

He slung the pack over his shoulders, the weight settling against his back easily.

Before he could walk away, she grabbed his hand tightly between two of hers, squeezing his fingers tightly.

“She had Roan, and she can take care of herself! Lincoln told me that you saw her fight, and that she has all this supernatural strength. She doesn’t need any kind of protection from us!”

“I don’t care,” he whispered, aching, his voice brittle, “I don’t _care_. Octavia, I promised her that I would have her back, that I would be with her. And then...”

A single tear fell from Bellamy’s left eye, and she could only watch - that’s all she could ever do, _watch_ \- it fall down his face and off the edge of his chin.

“I’m not going to let her walk into Polis and face Lexa alone. I’m not going to let her walk into what is a powder keg explosion waiting for a spark.”

“She’s going to be fine, Bellamy, you don’t need-“

When he finally yells, the outburst startled her so much she dropped his hand and stepped back.

“We can’t lose Clarke!”

His voice cracked on her name, his desperation clear in his tone.

The Blake siblings stared at each other in mutual shock.

The lengths he would go to keep her safe surprised even him. The realization that he can’t - the grief that he couldn’t before - _crushes him_.

Octavia wanted to rage at whatever gods were out there, wanted to scream and demand answers for why they would be so cruel. Her brother, with his pure heart, should never have suffered from their cruel schemes, the strings these gods pulled with mortal souls caught in the crossfire.

It wasn’t _fair_.

“Bellamy…that’s not Clarke. We’ve _already_ lost her,” she is _desperate_ her brother to understand. “Clarke died all those months ago. Whoever... _whatever_ is wearing her face right now, whatever has her memories...it’s not _her_ , Bellamy.”

Bellamy stiffened to withstand the blows of her words, tightened his grip with his free hand on the straps of his bag.

“You have to let her go, Bellamy.”

Octavia has long felt like she was desperately holding onto Bellamy, trying to pull him out of dangerous waters. But he is holding onto her with one hand, the other holding onto an anchor - to Clarke - and it’s going to drown him, drag him down no matter what she does or how hard she holds onto him or how loudly she begs him to let go of Clarke.

She’s going to lose her brother, and there is nothing she can do to save him.

“Please, _please_ , let her go.”

For a long moment, the two siblings stand there suspended in the intensity.

Bellamy _aches_ as he looks at his little sister - the strongest person he knew, the girl for the longest time that had been his whole heart, his whole _life_ -

He wants nothing more than to let his bag fall off his shoulder, to wrap her up in his arms and hug her, promise her that he will. He wants the scared look to leave her eyes - hates himself for putting it there in the first place - wants to reassure her that he is fine. He wants her to stop obsessively worrying that he is going to break, even when he feels the most fragile and brittle he has ever felt in his life.

But he won’t lie to her.

He never did before, and he won’t start now.

Slowly, as if afraid of startling her again, cupped a hand around her shoulder, gently holding her as he leaned down far enough to press a kiss to her forehead. 

Octavia’s eyes fell shut, her hands tightening into fists even as tears burn behind her nose, because she _knows_ -

“I love you, O, more than anything. But I can’t let her go, no more than you can let Lincoln go.”

_I love her -_

_I need her to breathe -_

_I never let her go in the first place -_

_I would never want to let her go, even if it killed me -_

Stubbornly - maybe even childishly - Octavia kept her eyes closed so she won’t have to see him walk away.

.

.

.

The whispers as Wanheda walked through Arkadia might as well have been shouts.

_“There’s danger coming-“_

_“ - claim she was brought back from the dead -“_

_“Look at her, she came back wrong-“_

_“ - they trust her?”_

Wanheda tuned the words out. She did not even try to identify who said what.

She had not been expecting a warm welcome. She did not need one.

She had a duty to carry out, and she would do so without preamble.

“You’re looking pretty good there for a dead girl, Griffin.”

The man who spoke was tall, lanky. Dark brown hair that was just a touch too long, falling in front of his face. Prominent nose, dark blue eyes, and a sarcastic grin that looked both condescending and sympathetic at the same time.

“John Murphy.”

“That’s fucking creepy, Griffin.”

She arched an eyebrow in silent answer.

Murphy strode closer, his sharp gaze missing nothing as he looked her up and down.

“Well, death has certainly treated you kindly. You look the same, just…less…human?”

He trailed off lightly, the questioning tone in his words drowned out by the obvious mocking.

“The reason for that being that I am not human,” she shot back.

“Well, you have certainly sent this camp into a spiral. I would hate to see what our fearless leader is like right now.”

The pained - no, the _devastated_ \- look on Bellamy Blake’s face when she first encountered him at the border flashed across her mind’s eye. She remembered how something in her ached at that look, how she had forced it down immediately.

She knew that he had been shaken, devastated all over again by seeing her.

Maybe somewhere deep down she would feel guilt for it. But she she couldn’t allow herself to really _feel_ it, not when it was fulfilling her mission.

Not when she knew that she was going to be the only thing between all of them and certain death.

Murphy scoffed, breaking through her thoughts.

“I will say though, I don’t envy you, Griffin.”

She bit down on the urge to remind him that she was not “Clarke Griffin” anymore. It was becoming redundant, and she found she was too weary to fight with him.

“Why is that?”

Murphy shrugged offhandedly.

“It’s just my opinion, but if I’m dead…I would want to stay dead. Seems a bit unfair to those left behind to never get to heal, huh? Even more unfair to you, never getting peace.”

Instinctively, she grabbed his wrist, keeping him from walking away.

Murphy froze, every muscle in his body going rigid. He did not look away from her gaze.

For a long moment, she examined his face.

Then she looked at his soul.

Thanatos’ touch was upon him.

A single mark in the center of his soul, a faint touch of Death. A permanent mark, screaming truth for anyone who was able to sense it.

“You are not unfamiliar with Thanatos,” she mused aloud, before her gaze snapped back up to meet his.

“You never told Clarke Griffin that you died, John Murphy.”

Murphy flinched. Holding onto his wrist as she was, she could feel the jerk, the desire to try and break away.

She could see the flare in his soul, the pulse of shock and shame and fear.

“Don’t pretend you would have cared, not after what I had done,” Murphy snapped.

“I am not Clarke Griffin,” she repeated, some frustration and exasperation finally leaking into her tone; she was getting annoyed repeating herself. “But the memories I have from her tell me that she would have cared, John. She would have cared a great deal.”

Murphy opened and closed his mouth a few times, clearly struggling with what to make of that.

Wanheda sighed, lifting her free hand and placing it on the center of his chest, just to the side and a bit higher than his heart. She could feel the familiar spiral of power, the power she shared with Thanatos reaching out to her.

Murphy shivered underneath her touch, something deep and ancient within him reacting to her touch.

“They brought me back after some torture went too far,” Murphy admitted.

He remembered the feeling of his nails being ripped off his fingers, how when they would beat him he clenched his jaw tightly to keep from screaming. How when that failed, he screamed until his throat was bloody. He remembered how they held his head below water even as he fought, how the liquid had rushed into his lungs and burned his nose.

He remembered how he would beg the blackness at the edge of his vision to take over. How, the one day they went too far and he felt himself die, it had been the sweetest relief he had ever felt.

He remembered when they brought him back, he laughed maniacally until he cried, because _of course_.

He didn’t get peace. He didn’t get a reprieve.

He didn’t know why he ever thought he was worthy of it.

“I am sorry, John,” her voice jolted him out of his horrific memories, her expression genuinely remorseful.

“For what, Griffin?”

“I’m sorry that you had to carry this alone.”

.

.

.

Wanheda rounded a corner on her search for Roan when she stumbled upon them.

The feisty girl, Octavia, standing close to Lincoln, the two of them half-hidden behind a pile of metal crates.

Instinctively, she shrouded herself from mortal sight, taking a half-step forward to better see them.

She had been impressed by Octavia - a girl with zero fear, only protectiveness, when she demanded that Wanheda stop when Bellamy flinched at her aggressive words.

Wanheda was a little ashamed that her irritation had gotten the better of her. It wasn’t even _her_ irritation, it was the conflicting emotions that Clarke Griffin had - so powerful, so utterly, painfully _human_ \- in regards to Commander Lexa and Bellamy Blake.

The anger and bravery in Octavia - emanating from her soul, bright and hot as a spark about to meet tinder - and her fierce warpaint and braids were at odds with the tender scene she saw between the two of them now.

Where Octavia was a hot flame, Lincoln was calm and serene as still water. The balance of their soul connection was a work of art, perfectly balanced - a thing of beauty and love that Wanheda was sure would spawn legends of its own, given enough time.

Octavia’s jaw was clenched tightly, her hands in tight fists at her side even as Lincoln ran his hands up and down her arms in an attempt to comfort her. There were faint marks where tears had rolled across her warpaint, smearing it the smallest bit.

“-is going to destroy him, “Octavia bit out, her voice laced with anger that hid the deep heartbreak in her soul, “This is going to send him back over the edge. He was finally starting to get better, and then she came back and _she_ doesn’t even give a _damn_ -“

Wanheda knew that they were talking about her.

“That’s not fair,” Lincoln wiped away some of her tears with his thumb in a small but deeply intimate gesture. “Clarke loved Bellamy,” he soothed, “and you know that. Wanheda is not Clarke, no matter how much she might look like her.”

“But she is enough of Clarke that Bellamy is going to kill himself trying to protect her,” Octavia’s breaths were shuddery, borderline sobs.

“She has Clarke’s memories, she just…doesn’t feel them the way you would think. But Octavia, Clarke is probably still in there somewhere. Clarke loved Bellamy, and you know that. She sacrificed _everything_ for him, for her people, which includes you, no matter how little you want to do with the Skaikru. Have a little faith in her. Have a little faith in her love for Bellamy.”

“If she really loved him, she would have thought about how she hurt him, how coming back would just hurt him even more! If she really loved him, she wouldn’t have come back at all!”

Lincoln immediately - but gently - chided her words.

Wanheda turned on her heel and immediately walked away.

Somewhere, deep inside her - maybe between the cage of her ribs, beneath her still heart - Clarke Griffin was _screaming_.

Because hurting anyone she had loved - _especially_ Bellamy Blake - was the absolute last thing Clarke would have wanted.

Her desire to protect people she loved - even from herself - was something so intrinsic to who she had been, it stained Wanheda even now.

It was so tied to Clarke’s soul, so deep a desire, that Wanheda found herself baffled by the depth of the emotion - the hurt - that had taken root with Octavia’s words.

She blinked rapidly, confused by the tears that welled up in her eyes. She pressed one hand to her cheek, staring down at the dampness that was smeared across her fingers.

She struggled to suck in a deep breath, struggled against all of Clarke Griffin that was raging in her chest, and forced it all down into neat, orderly lines. Gathered her swirling emotions and forcefully detached herself.

Steeled herself, and made a promise.

For Clarke - and for all Clarke’s loved ones - she would not hurt them, not if she could help it. She was here to protect - and it was a rude awakening that maybe her presence was enough to hurt. Maybe her mission wasn’t going to be as simple as protecting them from Echidna’s monsters.

Maybe protecting them - protecting them the way that Clarke wanted to protect them - would be by keeping them at arms length. Don’t let them know the memories she still prized above all, don’t let them know the sparks of emotion she felt still. She would ensure that whenever she departed, she did not rip open an old wound.

Suitably cowed, humbled, Wanheda kept herself invisible from view and swiftly left the camp.

She tried not to think about how she was still desperately seeking a peace she knew she would never find again.

.

.

.

Roan found her miles from Arkadia.

She stood, back straight as an arrow, one of her hands absently wrapped around the hilt of one of her daggers. She stared up at the mountain that loomed in the distance, the setting sun bathing it in shades of orange and red.

Once he got to where she was standing, he stood to her left in silence for a long time.

A faint breeze blew through the clearing, lifting the ends of her hair and whipped them around her cheeks in disarray. She made no move to push them back into place.

When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet.

“We were sent down from space because we were criminals, deemed expendable. We were all technically children, and would have been executed on our eighteenth birthdays anyway. Our space station was dying, could not support the amount life on it for much longer. They didn’t even know if we would survive on the surface, but it was a risk they were willing to take.”

He was mildly surprised by that. He could not picture this small girl - when she had been a normal girl - as some kind of criminal. He was even more surprised at how cutthroat the Skaikru were; they were almost as strict as Azgeda in their laws.

“We barely survived. Between the Trikru coming to kill us, the acid fog from the mountain, and trying to learn to survive on the ground…we lost a lot of people. The Mountain Men came with gas and guns, technology that we had not seen on the ground before. They kidnapped us from our camp. We awoke in white rooms, and they pretended that they had saved us, that they wanted to help us.”

He had gathered as much; while the stories of the Mountain Men had been more of a nightmare for the Trikru - and the Reapers a very real threat - the stories had still made their way to Azgeda.

“They kept a veneer of welcome, of hospitality and manners, all while they bled the Trikru dry or turned them into mindless, cannibalistic monsters. When it wasn’t enough, they went after more, killing us to get what they wanted from our bones. They could not walk the ground like we did because they had not evolved to withstand the radiation.”

“I escaped, came back to warn my people. I sent Bellamy to infiltrate as our spy. We made an alliance with the Commander to storm the mountain and get our people back.”

“But they launched that missile,” Roan remembered hearing the reports of the lives lost, remembered the wounds and the lost look in the eyes of those who had survived when others did not.

“Yes. I could not warn them because they would have known of our spy. I made the choice. People died.”

“We stormed the mountain anyway, only for the Commander to betray us. She made her own deal with the mountain for her people, left me and mine to die.”

Roan felt his lip curl unconsciously.

While he felt some regret for the murder of the Commander’s lover - the girl, Costia, had been simply a weakness they exploited - his distaste for the Commander herself was something that still burned like banked embers in his blood, ready to be nurtured into a full-blown blaze.

Lexa did not care for anyone but her own interests. It still made her a great leader, at least for the people she claimed as her own.

But Roan knew that Lexa would let Azgeda burn to the ground and not blink, alliance or not. Azgeda knew that their membership in the coalition was in name only, knew that none of the other tribes would lift a finger to come to their aid if they needed help.

It did not surprise him that Lexa turned her back on the alliance with the Skaikru.

But it still angered him.

“With the alliance, without the alliance, it did not matter. The mission did not change."

Her voice was level, unemotional, even as her eyes glared at the mountain - now a silent tomb.

"The mission was to get my people out of the mountain alive.”

Roan turned to look at her, his curiosity burning in his chest.

She kept her gaze on the horizon, looking to the mountain that the girl she had been before had stormed, killing all those in there because she had to. Because there was no other choice, not when it came down to it, not really.

When she trailed off and did not continue to fill the silence, he gently - as gently as he knew how to do - prompted her.

“…and yourself?”

Wanheda did not blink, did not look away from the mountain, did not flinch.

“I was the sacrifice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Some of the lines come from the script for the first episode of season 3
> 
> We are finally starting to get into the real plot of the story!
> 
> I also want to be clear that this story is not supposed to be Lexa-bashing. I see her as a really interesting, complicated character - but, as we see a lot, power and responsibility has a way of making even the most good-hearted character bitter and short-sighted. I see her as a good leader to those she deems her people, which is both a pro and a con. Pro, since she will protect her people with everything she has. Con, because we have seen that she will go back on her word, and even if that action is justifiable in some ways, breaking your word once leaves you with a reputation you will not be able to ever really escape. 
> 
> Yes, I know Murphy is not with the rest of the Skaikru at the end of season two, but just pretend he never left, since I killed Jaha off before he even got to the ground and started searching for the City of Light. 
> 
> Murphy is one of my favorite characters, and I want to give him a love interest (not Emori - I don't think I can do her character justice since I have not watched anything past Season Two and only really know her from tumblr) and wanna hear your thoughts about it!
> 
> Thank you all so much for the positive feedback, it makes my heart so, so happy. I am also really glad that many of you are enjoying Clarke/Wanheda's bromance with Roan! Needless to say, Roan and Bellamy are going to butt heads a bit in the next chapter. 
> 
> Please keep commenting, let me know what you want to see too! And come hang out with me on [tumblr](https://chase-the--wind.tumblr.com/), I love hearing from you, and I want to start answering writing prompts for you in between updates, so throw them at me! I am in way too many fandoms to count, and I love to make friends!


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